


Find Something in Nothing

by kjack89



Series: Prompt Drabbles [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff - yes I wrote fluff for once be proud, Gen, M/M, No one dies and we should be really excited about that fact, One-Shots, unrelated one-shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 52
Words: 62,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set of unrelated Modern AU drabbles and one-shots based on people's prompts from Tumblr. See chapter notes for other warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prompt 1 - Courf/Jehan Bedroom/house/living quarters

**Author's Note:**

> So in the lull between chaptered fics that I'm working on as I battle my writer's block (and desperately needing a bit of a break after my last fic), I posted a headcanon prompt challenge to Tumblr.
> 
> Only issue? I don't really headcanon so much as I drabble.
> 
> And since for some reason people keep wanting to read more, I'm putting them up on here as well as Tumblr if just so they're a little better organized.
> 
> So yeah. Modern AU, with more warnings to come as applicable. A lot of fluff - which I normally don't write as many of you well know, so gentleness is appreciated. This chapter is Courf/Jehan - each chapter will be labeled with pairing involved and prompt.
> 
> Usual disclaimer - I don't own them. Title is from a Strider Marcus Jones quote - "When words don't come easy, I make do with silence and find something in nothing."

They weren’t living together. Both were insistent on that point.

Jehan liked having space. He enjoyed being alone at times, surrounded only by books and plants, a notebook in his lap turned to a fresh page, one of his favorite pens held loose between his fingers. His apartment was his sanctuary.

So he wasn’t  _living_  with Courfeyrac.

Nevermind that a fine layer of dust seemed to cover those books. Nevermind that some of his plants seemed a bit neglected (especially nevermind the fact that some of the ones he liked best had somehow found their way into bright corners at Courf’s apartment). Nevermind that one of his favorite places to write had become Courf’s couch while he was at work.

And Courfeyrac, for his part, enjoyed his independence, the last remnants of his bachelor days. He could go out when he wanted, come back when he wanted. He could drink his coffee black and drink milk straight out of the carton and walk around naked because it was his apartment, and his alone.

Because Jehan wasn’t  _living_  with him.

They ignored the fact that Jehan spent every night in Courfeyrac’s bed. They ignored the fact that when Courf got up in the morning, when he managed to disentangle himself from Jehan’s koala-like grip, he made coffee the way Jehan liked it and automatically poured two cups. They ignored the fact that all of their friends eventually just assumed that Jehan would be at Courfeyrac’s, that Courfeyrac, more and more frequently, traded nights on the town for night’s in, curled on the couch with Jehan as they watched some shitty movie or TV show together, Jehan’s head resting against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, Courfeyrac playing absentmindedly with Jehan’s braid. 

They weren’t living together. They weren’t.

But then one day Courfeyrac casually handed Jehan a key.  _Just in case_ , he said, still casual.  _You never know when you might need it_.

And then one day Jehan casually asked if he could bring some of his books over. Save him the journey back to his place when he needed a specific book, after all.

Space is made on the bookshelves. Space is made in the drawers and closets, on the shelf in the shower.

And one day Jehan goes to see his landlord, to hand in his last rent check.

Jehan can write in the library, or in a coffeeshop, or down in the park. Courf can walk around naked so long as Jehan can leer suggestively at him and tell him that they need more milk.

And then one night at the Musain, Jehan slips his hand in Courf’s and says  _Let’s go back to ours_.

So maybe they’re living together after all.


	2. Prompt 2 - E/R sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter is rated M for sexual content**
> 
> Usual disclaimer, with the added caveat that I don't really write smut, sooo....

It started hot and fast. A quick, angry, borderline-hate fuck in the back of the Musain one night after everyone else had gone home. Enjolras topped because it was his anger at Grantaire coursing through his veins that drove him, and the only way to appease it was to drive into Grantaire again and again, sucking bloodbruises into his neck, pinning his hands behind him and swallowing Grantaire’s groans and half-muttered curses in heady kisses.

It became a thing. 

Neither of them expected it. It was hard to say who was more shocked that they fell into a pattern. Grantaire was shocked because he had wanted Enjolras so desperately for so long that he could barely believe it was happening. Enjolras was shocked because it was  _Grantaire_ , who drove him up a wall and was purposefully obtuse, who drank too much and was far too cynical for his own good.

But it was just sex, after all.

And they had lots of it. Grantaire topped Enjolras for the first time two weeks in, and even though he shook with nerves and something close to reverence, the moans he elicited were well worth it.

It was four weeks in before Enjolras casually mentioned that maybe they should get dinner. Together. It was their first official date. Grantaire gave Enjolras a blowjob under the table and they fucked in the bathroom stall.

They both agreed a week later that their first date would need a do-over.

The first time Enjolras stayed the night, he woke the next morning to find Grantaire had moved from his position, his head no longer pillowed on Enjolras’s chest, instead propped up so that he could look at Enjolras with dark eyes. “Hey,” he said in a voice rough with sleep.

“Hey yourself,” Enjolras said with a smile, leaning up to kiss Grantaire. Grantaire didn’t smile in return, and Enjolras frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Shaking his head, Grantaire looked away. “Nothing’s wrong, I promise.” But when he looked back at Enjolras, there was something close to longing in his eyes, and he looked at Enjolras as if memorizing him.

Enjolras laughed almost nervously. “Would you stop looking at me like I’m about to disappear?”

Grantaire flashed him a half-smile, but his eyes were sad. “You haven’t yet. Doesn’t mean you’re not going to.”

Then Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s chin firmly in his hand and told him in a low, heated voice, “I’m not going anywhere. Understood?” before pressing a hard kiss to Grantaire’s lips.

The sex they had after that was the best yet.


	3. Prompt 3 - Courf/Jehan sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter rated M for sexual content**.
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies.

Courfeyrac didn’t know a damn thing about poetry.

When he had set out to woo Jehan -  _“Don’t call it ‘woo’,” Combeferre had told him dryly, adding “You’re not nearly classy enough for that”, but damnit, Jehan deserved to be wooed and Courf was determined_  - Courf had tried to get into poetry. To memorize the sonnets of the Bard, discover the little lines and phrases that would make Jehan melt.

He hadn’t been able to.

Luckily, Jehan didn’t seem to need poetry. He melted at Courfeyrac’s smirk, at his swagger, at the way he laughed raucously, at the way he looked at Jehan as if he had never quite seen him before and never wanted to stop looking. Jehan was wooed by everything Courfeyrac  _was_ , and his clumsy attempts at romance only made Jehan fall faster.

On their sixth date, Courfeyrac confessed that he just didn’t understand poetry. Jehan grinned. “Let me show you.”

Courfeyrac had fucked more men and women than he could probably accurately count, a fact which he was more proud of than ashamed by, though he was moderately nervous about the fact that Jehan knew this about him already. He needn’t have worried.

He may have had sex before; he had never made love before.

Poetry was the bend of Jehan’s spine, the way his skin glowed in the dim light, the way he bit his lip and grinned seductively, wriggling and crooking his fingers inside Courfeyrac in a way that made Courf gasp and swear under his breath.

Poetry was when Jehan entered him for the first time, with fingers against Courf’s hips deep enough to leave the best kinds of bruises as his lips ghosted against Courfeyrac’s throat.

And as Jehan began to move, Courfeyrac learned that he could make poetry, too.

The words he panted against Jehan’s shoulder could have been Neruda, his gasping chant of “Jehan, Jehan, Jehan” could have been in iambic pentameter, and the growling noises of ecstasy they both made as they came together was better than all the works of Shakespeare combined.

And Courf’s murmured “I love you” as they lay next to each other, chests heaving, equally spent, was the only poetry Jehan had ever needed from him.


	4. Prompt 4 - Courf/Jehan Childhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for slur usage. Slight warning for underage? I mean, just dating, kissing and holding hands, so...nothing bad. All very PG.**
> 
>  
> 
> Usual disclaimer.

People tended to assume, as they saw them walking hand in hand through the halls of their high school, that Courfeyrac was the protector, the “man” in the relationship (because even in gay couples it was apparently necessary for one to be the “man” and the other the “woman” - both rolled their eyes at this). They couldn’t have been more wrong.

They were misled, as were so many others, by the floral prints Jehan favored, by the hair he wore long and braided, by his delicate features and bird-like bones.

They didn’t realize the steel that banded these bones. They didn’t realize that Jean Prouvaire was no flower to bend delicately in the wind.

For Jehan had withstood his fair share of teasing, bullying, and, in some cases, outright torture that accompanied being perceived as even a little different in elementary school. And Jehan was more than a little different.

His mother had suggested it only once, in a soft voice, when Jehan had staggered in after being jumped on his way home. It wasn’t so bad this time - a black eye, a split lip - but his mother, tired of being on the phone with the school everyday, demanding that something be done only to be told that it was her son’s word against his tormentors, asked quietly, “Do you think you should maybe try and fit in more? Just for a little bit? Until it dies down?”

Jehan had fixed her with his stormy gray eyes and lifted the ice off his lip to say, equally quiet, “But then they would win.”

She never suggested it again.

Middle school, by and large, was better for Jehan - ironic, really, in that middle school was often the worst years for teasing and bullying. But Jehan had weathered the brunt of it, and bullying lost its fun when the victim seemed almost…willing. So his tormentors found easier victims.

This wasn’t to say Jehan suddenly had friends. He was a loner, often, it seemed, by nature, more content to sit in right field during softball games in PE and pick dandelions than participate in the sport, just as he was content to sit by himself during lunch, a book or notebook his sole companion. He had, if not friends, then acquaintances, the other lonely, oddball kids like himself who tended to band together for lack of having anyone else, and he would have been content to continue like this into high school.

But then he met Courfeyrac.

Or more accurately, stumbled upon the dark-haired kid, back against a wall, facing off against three of the most notorious bullies in the school, looking for all the world like a cornered kitten. His lip was busted, but he was  _smiling_  at them, hands held up placatingly. “Gentlemen,” he said, in a voice that slid from the baritone of an adult back into the childlike alto of youth, “there’s really no need for violence. I’m sure we can work something o-Oof!”

A punch to the ribs knocked the air out of him and he staggered, only to pop up again, still smiling. “Come on, now, that seems a little unnecessary—”

This time he was punched in the face, and when he went down, he stayed down. The bullies moved in, like sharks sensing blood, more kicks and punches reigning down, until Jehan, throwing caution and his own self-preservation to the wind, cleared his throat loudly. “I’d stop if I were you,” he told them mildly.

One sneered at him. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing,” said Jehan, still calm, though his heart was pounding in his throat as he bluffed. “But Mr. Phillips is on his way in this direction, and I imagine your spots on the football team wouldn’t be safe if you were caught red-handed beating someone up.”

Luckily, they bought it, and scattered. Jehan swiftly went to kneel at the guy’s side, concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Just fine,” he said, pushing himself into semi-sitting position and sticking out a hand for Jehan to shake. “I’m Courfeyrac. Thank you for coming to my aid.”

“Jean Prouvaire,” said Jehan, accepting Courfeyrac’s hand and using it to help pull him to his feet. “But you can call me Jehan. You must be new here.”

Courfeyrac flashed him a grin, unfazed by the fact that his teeth were flecked with blood. “Am I that obvious?”

Jehan smiled back, almost tentatively, and dropped Courfeyrac’s hand quickly. “Well, you learned the most important lesson early on at least - stay out of those guys’ way.”

Courfeyrac started to say something, taking a step towards Jehan, but instead staggered, almost falling. Jehan quickly reached out to steady him. “C’mon,” said Jehan, wrapping one arm around Courfeyrac’s waist to help support him. “I’ll take you to my friend Grantaire’s. He’s been beat up more than anyone. He’ll be able to help.”

As they walked - well, in Courf’s case, limped - away, Jehan couldn’t help but ask, “So what brought the wrath of the bullies down upon you?”

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac cheerfully. “One of their delightful number called me a ‘fag’, and I asked if there was anything wrong with being one. That got me dragged outside. Then I told them I was one, though I'm not - I mean, I think I'm bi or whatever, but that wasn't really the point, you know? It was the principle of the matter - and anyway that earned me the split lip. Then you came along, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Jehan started. Theirs was not a particularly… _welcoming_  community, making the bullies’ reaction almost expected, something that even Courfeyrac should have realized. Courfeyrac’s grin was wild, almost crazy, and Jehan realized that Courfeyrac had known that exactly and just hadn’t cared. “You’re insane.”

This just made Courfeyrac grin all the more. “Maybe. But you like it.”

As they shared their first clumsy kiss at Courfeyrac’s eighth grade formal a few weeks later, Jehan had to admit that perhaps he did.

Courfeyrac spoke like a character from one of the novels Jehan read, his grin could only be described as debonair, his laugh quick and booming. He was an outrageous flirt but also loyal to a fault, never once cheating on Jehan during their year apart when Courf was a freshman and Jehan still an eighth grader. During high school, Jehan got to watch as Courfeyrac grew into a man, still quick to laugh, still completely full of self-confidence.

But Jehan would always remember the look in Courfeyrac’s eyes that day  in middle school, the wariness and even fear that his wide grin tried to hide. So he smiled blithely and held Courfeyrac’s hand just a little tighter whenever anyone joked about Courfeyrac rescuing Jehan from bullies.

Maybe it wasn’t true. But only he and Courf needed to know that.


	5. Prompt 5 - E/R Nicknames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wasn't so much a prompt as a bit of an "f- you" to a rude anon I got (which is why it's considerably shorter). But I'm counting it anyway.

Grantaire was the only one - besides Courfeyrac, but that was a different story, since Courfeyrac did it just to mess with Enjolras - to call Enjolras “Enjy”. None of the others would have dared. But along with “Apollo”, it was one of Grantaire’s favorite things to call Enjolras, if only for the particular shade of red that Enjolras turned, the way his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. There was nothing more attractive than Enjolras when peeved, and nothing did this to him moreso than the usage of the nickname.

Enjolras, for his part, refused to call Grantaire by that stupid nickname - “R”. Oh, he understood the joke, the pun that Grantaire was going for. But he thought it was stupid, and rolled his eyes whenever anyone called him it. So instead he called him “Taire”, a compromise of sorts, and a joke of their own.

Because “Taire” meant “shut up” in French. And it was meant as a joke, for the most part, a joke shared between the two.

You might expect Grantaire to dislike the joke, but he liked it quite a bit. Because before Enjolras called him by any nickname - it did take a while to build up to that point, you see - Enjolras would tell him to “shut up” in a tone that mostly a furious growl. But as they started dating, the “shut up” became almost playful in and of itself. It’s said lovingly now, except for when it’s not (but in those situations, Enjolras calls him by his full name anyway, and Grantaire’s probably done or said something stupid to deserve it). And the use of the nickname matches that evolution. So everytime Enjolras calls him “Taire” in that loving voice, Grantaire gets a little swoop of joy in his stomach because he remembers the way Enjolras whispered “shut up” in his ear last night before they fell asleep together.


	6. Prompt 6 - Courf/Jehan and E/R having children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh so remember how I said no one dies? I kind of lied but it's not a _bad_ dying, per se, like it should be kinda sorta happy-ish? I don't know. **Technically major character death**.
> 
> Book that Grantaire is reading aloud from is _Where the Wild Things Are_.

There was no question in either of Jehan or Courfeyrac’s minds that they would have children. They were just naturals. Between Jehan’s natural inclination to care for others and Courfeyrac’s childlike nature, everyone in Les Amis privately agreed they would make some of the best parents around.

The only decision was how to go about doing so.

Courfeyrac had suggested adoption, almost reluctantly, but he quickly followed it up with, “But part of me wants our kids to have your eyes.”

Jehan smiled and kissed him sweetly. “And I want our kids to have your smile.”

They kissed once more before suggesting in unison, “Surrogate?”

A year later, Emily was born, followed the next year by Arthur.

In many ways, they were naturals at parenting. Jehan was firm where Courfeyrac was soft, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still cry a little the first time they let Emily cry herself back to sleep in the middle of the night. And it didn’t mean that Courfeyrac was afraid to discipline Arthur when he wrote all over the walls with his crayons.

Jehan was ‘Dad’; Courfeyrac was ‘Daddy’. Together, they were a family.

Ironically, Emily, the one who looked like Jehan, down to the nose and strawberry blonde hair, was the most like her daddy, with a mischievous grin belied by wide innocent eyes. Arthur was quieter, a little more serious, more keen on books, his green eyes sparkling as he read, his dark curls tussled.

As they were the first kids of Les Amis, they were spoiled absolutely rotten. Bahorel loved to toss Emily up in the air and catch her again as she squealed with delighted laughter. Feuilly taught Arthur to paint, not even caring when he fingerpainted more on Feuilly’s kitchen table than the paper in front of him. Joly avoided them like the plague, always afraid of passing on whatever disease he thought he had come down with that week, but he constantly emailed articles about parenting and children’s health, and the first time Emily came down with a cold, he spent the entire night at her bedside, Bossuet snoring from the living room. Combeferre beamed the first time he held Emily, and pressed gentle kisses into Arthur’s fine hair. When Marius held his own baby boy for the first time, he declared how wonderful it would be if his kid were to marry Emily one day.

They all half hope it will happen.

Most importantly, neither Jehan nor Courfeyrac realized they could love the other more than they already did. But when Courfeyrac walked into the kitchen to find Jehan crooning to Arthur as he fed him, or when Jehan slipped out of bed one night to find Emily pressed to Courfeyrac’s shoulder as they both slept in the rocking chair, both men discovered new and more wonderful sides of the other to fall in love with each and every day.

* * *

 

Enjolras had never wanted kids.

It wasn’t that he didn’t  _like_  them - children were fine in small doses, particularly when other adults were looking after them - but his life plans didn’t leave much room for children. And he was absolutely fine with that.

Then Grantaire happened.

And once it was clear that this thing with Grantaire had moved forever from the “ _Just this once…_ ” realm and firmly past the “ _It’s only temporary_ ” condition, Enjolras had told him, almost sternly, half worried that this would be the final straw, “No kids.”

He had underestimated as always Grantaire’s eagerness to do anything to stay with him, as the man had readily agreed.

Their wedding came and went, and neither showed any sign of wanting the pitter-patter of small feet. When Jehan and Courf had kids, they ooh-ed and aah-ed obediently with everyone else. Neither seemed to feel any paternal instincts kicking in.

But then one day Enjolras came home from work to find Grantaire on the floor with Emily and Arthur, holding them close to him as he read outloud to them. His eyes met Enjolras’s and he broke into a wide grin, even as he finished reading, “…where he found his supper waiting for him, and it was still hot.” Then he nudged both of them gently. “Look who’s here.” 

“Uncle Enjy!” they chorused, grinning at Enjolras with practically identical evil grins as he sighed exasperatedly.

“I will kill Courf for teaching you to call me that,” he sighed.

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Enjy,” said Courfeyrac from behind Enjolras, clapping him on the shoulder. “C’mon kids, time to go home.”

He escorted the kids outside, waving over his shoulder at Enjolras and Grantaire. Enjolras turned to look at Grantaire, who sighed contently. “They’re great, aren’t they?” he grinned. 

Enjolras smiled slightly. “They are.” But his heart seemed to sink as he looked at the content look on Grantaire’s face. He had always known that he didn’t want kids, but he had never even thought to ask how Grantaire felt, if their arrangement still held after all this time. Based on the look on his face, Grantaire wanted children. And the only thing holding him back was Enjolras. Could Enjolras continue depriving the man he loved of something that he wanted?

Grantaire stood, his grin turning uncertain. “Enjolras? What’s wrong?”

In three long strides, Enjolras crossed the room and pulled Grantaire into a strong embrace. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into Grantaire’s hair, holding him close. “I never thought about what it would be like for you, never considered that you might actually want children. I’ve been so selfish.”

“I…what?” Grantaire asked, pulling away, his brow furrowed in confusion. 

Enjolras gestured impatiently. “You, with Emily and Arthur. You’re great with them. Amazing. You’d make a wonderful dad. And I don’t want to deprive you of that opportunity.” He squared his shoulders. “I know I said I didn’t want kids, but I would have children with you. If you wanted.”

Looking like he was torn between laughing and crying, Grantaire shook his head slightly and reached up to cup the base of Enjolras’s head, pulling him forward so that their foreheads rested against the other’s. “I want  _you_ ,” he said simply. “I want to spend every moment that I can with you for the rest of our lives. I’ve never needed to have children to feel complete. I’ve just needed you.”

Enjolras smiled slightly. “That’s probably not the sign of a healthy relationship,” he told him quietly.

“Like I give a fuck what’s healthy,” Grantaire snorted, but his eyes were soft. “I love you, alright? Kids would only mess everything up. I’d have to stop drinking—”

“Though you should do that anyway,” Enjolras interjected. 

Grantaire waved a hand impatiently. “You’d be working all the time still and I’d have to take care of them, and let’s be honest, in that case they’d be like the fish you buy for ten cents at the store - they’d be dead within a week." 

Smiling slightly, Enjolras nodded, though he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “If you’re sure.”

“Positive. I’ve never really wanted kids, Enjolras. They’re fun in small doses, but permanently? No. You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” Grantaire told him, sincerity etched into his every feature. “And besides, this way, when we get tired of having the little brats around, we can just give them back.”

And so the decision was made, even more than it already had been. People didn’t understand. “What will you do when you get old?” they asked, looking concerned. “Who will take care of you?”

Enjolras would just take Grantaire’s hand and smile. “We’ll take care of each other.”

“But what will you do when the other goes?”

Grantaire would kiss the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. “If there’s any justice in the world, we’ll go together.”

And they did. In their 80s. Together. Just minutes apart.

They died holding hands.


	7. Prompt 7 - E/R Reincarnation

Enjolras was looking.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. He just knew there was something  _missing_.  
  
Something had always been missing before, in his previous life, but he had found it at the last possible moment, a piece that fit perfectly. Now that piece was missing, and he felt it acutely in his heart.  
  
Those he had already found along the way - Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his loyal lieutenants, and slowly over time, more of Les Amis - couldn’t help him with what was missing. They had been dead before he had found what he had always needed without knowing he needed it.  
  
It did not help that the memories didn’t flood automatically back. They more faded in, like a Polaroid picture very slowly developing.  
  
But he  _knew_  something was missing and he had to find it. He may not know what it was that was missing but he was desperate to find whatever it was.  
  
As time passed and he did not find what he sought, he almost lost hope. Maybe what was missing hadn’t come with to this time and this place.   
  
But then, one night at a bar - Enjolras, who still didn’t really drink, avoided bars when he could but Courf had insisted - he found what he had been missing.  
  
Or rather,  _who_.  
  
He caught a glimpse of blue eyes and it hit him in the chest like a bundle of bricks. He saw dark, unkept curls and was unable to speak for a moment.  
  
Until he breathlessly whispered, “Grantaire…”  
  
And the man turned to face him, wary confusion on his face, replaced in an instant by joyous recognition. “Enjolras!”  
  
The final missing piece slid into place. And as Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand with trembling fingers, he was whole again.


	8. Prompt 8 - Courf/Jehan Mood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know what "mood" means? Like it means a lot of things? So this is what I came up with and I have no idea if it fulfills what the original prompter (who was anonymous) wanted so yeah.

Courfeyrac loved Jehan. Especially when he was fun and bouncy, especially when he tucked flowers into Courf’s hair, especially when he recited Shakespeare in increasingly broken stanzas while Courfeyrac sucked him off.

But Jehan was a Romantic in the truest sense of the word. And sometimes he woke and rose from bed with a dark look in his eyes. 

In moments like those, he scared Courfeyrac.

He scared Courfeyrac because it was times like these when Jehan would disappear for days at a time, sometimes with Grantaire, or with Bahorel, sometimes not. He would reappear always worse for wear, pale, thin, dark circles under his eyes. And quiet. Too quiet.

A day or so later he was back to himself, bouncing around seemingly without a care in the world, as if he hadn’t just disappeared for three days, as if he hadn’t stumbled back into their apartment with a wild look in his eye as if he had been to Hell and back.

Courfeyrac remembered. And it scared him.

Because what if Jehan went off on one of these little disappearing acts and never came back?  

He mentioned this one night as they lay next to each other in bed, not too long after one of these dark times. He could tell by the hunch of Jehan’s shoulders that the other man wasn’t sleeping yet, so he whispered, “Sometimes you scare me, Prouvaire.”

Jehan’s shoulders tightened and he sighed, rolling over so that he lay on his back. “Sometimes I scare myself,” he admitted quietly, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Then why…” Courf asked, letting his voice trail off, knowing that Jehan would understand.

A shrug. “Because I have to.”

Courfeyrac rolled over onto his side, frowning as he looked at Jehan. “Damn it, that’s not a good enough answer. Not this time.”

There was a pause for a moment as Jehan sorted through his thoughts before speaking. “There is beauty in darkness,” Jehan murmured finally. “Such beauty. And I cannot possibly write about it without experiencing it. Where there is light there must always be darkness. Neither can exist without the other.” He shrugged again. “I don’t expect you to understand, Courf. But it’s just something I need to do.”

Courfeyrac thought briefly of Grantaire and Enjolras and thought he might’ve glimpsed understanding. But the moment passed and he shook his head, gripping Jehan’s hand. “I would come with you, you know,” he said softly. “If you needed me to. I would follow you anywhere.”

Jehan squeezed his hand and rolled over to look into his eyes. “Oh no, my darling. I need you here, to have something to return to.” He kissed up Courfeyrac’s jawbone, nose brushing against the stubble that dusted Courf’s cheeks, pausing when his lips met Courf’s. “I cannot promise not to disappear again. But I will always return to you. That I do promise. Because you are my light.”


	9. Prompt 9 - E/R cooking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of a 2 part prompt (the second part of which has not been written yet...whoops!). Usual disclaimer.

People assumed that Enjolras didn’t know how to cook.

They were, for the most part, wrong.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know  _how_  to cook. Firstly, he was busy. Balancing school with his social justice pursuits left little free time to be dedicated toward cooking. He barely had enough free time to dedicate toward eating, letting alone toward purchasing ingredients, preparing food, actually waiting for it to cook, etc. 

And then on the other hand, his cooking knowledge ran more to the side of the highly impractical. All he knew about cooking he had picked up from hanging around in the kitchen of his parents’ house as a kid, watching as the chef - yes, they had a chef - prepared whatever extravagant meal was being planned for dinner that night. It was only during preparations for the more extravagant events that Enjolras could slip into the kitchen unnoticed, which was why all his knowledge was garnered from preparations for the kind of events that had food that no one ever made for himself.

In other words, Enjolras could make crab puffs with philo dough and a duck à l’orange that would make a classically trained chef cry from happiness, but he didn’t know how to make, for instance, spaghetti. Or scrambled eggs. And until Combeferre got tired of doing it when they lived together freshman year of college and forced him to learn to do it himself, he didn’t even know how to make coffee.

All in all, between the early mornings and the late nights and only ever spending maybe four hours a night at his apartment when he  _mostly_  slept, there just wasn’t time for such frivolities as cooking.

On the other extreme was Grantaire.

Grantaire could cook just about anything. At least, so long as it could be cooked in the microwave. Or in the single pot he owned over the single burner that worked on his shitty stove (and he mostly just used the burner to light his cigarettes). Coq au vin to Grantaire meant a bucket of fried chicken and a glass of Franzia (he had learned long ago to buy his alcohol for quantity, not quality - he never drank slowly enough to appreciate the quality).

He lounged around his apartment for far too long, skipping classes and drinking, so while he had the time to cook, well, he chose not to (hence the empty pizza boxes and Chinese take-out containers that littered the place).

When the two started dating, it was a point of contention at times. Grantaire wanted Enjolras to actually take the time to eat food. Enjolras retorted that he’d be more inclined if Grantaire actually ate real food (because ramen noodles just didn’t count).

As with everything though, the longer they were together, the more they seemed to rub off on each other. Grantaire got Enjolras to actually eat at least one actual meal a day, in return for the fact that it was an  _actual_  meal, cooked - dubiously, at first - in Enjolras’s kitchen by Grantaire on a stove or in an oven that actually worked. The microwave was saved mostly for making popcorn when they stayed in to watch a movie together.

For their first anniversary, however, Enjolras decided that he wanted Grantaire to actually taste his cooking. He had avoided it to this point because, to be fair, the time that he was no longer spending working and instead was spending with Grantaire was much better spent pursuing more… _physical_  activities than cooking. 

He decided on veal oscar with a bearnaise sauce. When he told Courfeyrac his plans, he thought the other man might die of laughter. “It’s a bit fancy, don’t you think?” Courf said finally, when he could breathe again. “I mean, can you imagine Grantaire eating that?”

“It’s a special occasion,” said Enjolras stiffly. “I want to treat him.”

And so he did. He got Jehan to get Grataire out of the house for the day while he cooked, setting up candles and the fancy china he had inherited from his grandmother in the dining room.

When Grantaire returned to find Enjolras dressed up and waiting for him, he was a little shocked. Actually, he was a lot shocked. His eyes only got wider and wider as he took in the dishes on the table, accompanied by more silverware than he knew what to do with. 

The first words out of his mouth were accusatory. “Why the fuck have I been making you food when you can cook like this?”

Enjolras grinned and grabbed Grantaire’s hand, kissing his knuckles. “Because I can’t cook normal food,” he chuckled. “But if you ever need someone to cater an event, I’m your man.”

He dished out the food and raised a glass of wine in a toast. “Bon appétit.”

Grantaire mutely raised his own glass and took a deep gulp while watching Enjolras out of the corner of his eye to see which fork and knife he was supposed to use.

Then he took his first bite. “Fucking shit,” said Grantaire once he had regained the power of speech. “This is better than sex.” 

Enjolras just raised an eyebrow at him.

Three hours later, as they lay panting next to each other, Grantaire admitted that perhaps it wasn’t actually better than sex. But it was definitely a close second.


	10. Interlude - They Don't Talk About It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not one of the prompts I was sent, but it's too short to post on its own so I'm posting it on here.
> 
> Grantaire & Joly friendship. Also this one's not so fluffy, so...yeah.
> 
> Written for the Joly to my Grantaire.

Grantaire looks up, startled, as Joly slams into his apartment, eyes wild, encircled with dark, tired smudges, his face drawn and pale. “Let’s get drunk,” he announces.

Frowning, Grantaire slowly sits up from his reclined position on the couch. “Normally I’d condone this course of action. As you well know. But - is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” says Joly roughly, going to Grantaire’s kitchen and beginning to rummage through his cabinets. “And everything.”

Grantaire frowns even deeper. “And you want to deal with this via alcohol? You’d be the first to say that isn’t healthy…”

Joly pauses in his rummaging and throws Grantaire a dark look. “It’s not healthy,” he says quietly. “But you and I both know it’s better than the alternative.”

Grantaire’s eyes meet his and they stare at each other in silence for a moment before Grantaire looks away, nodding ever so slightly.

Because they don’t talk about the alternatives.

They don’t talk about the silvery scars that mar both their skin, if in different locations. They don’t talk about the fact that Joly hasn’t taken pain meds in over five years, or the reasons for that, the same reasons that put him in the hospital, the same reasons that drove him to want to become a doctor. They don’t talk about the faded track marks that dot the crook of Grantaire’s arm, the skin between his toes, the too-pale, too-thin stretch of his wrist. 

They don’t talk about it. They’ve never needed to.

Instead, Joly brings the bottle of whiskey he finds to the couch, where he takes a swig before passing it to Grantaire, who takes an even larger swig. They go back and forth, splitting the bottle. Grantaire, always heavier than Joly, always more tolerant than Joly, watches him carefully until his head begins to droop. Then Grantaire sets the bottle down and scoots the other man closer to him, wrapping a companionable arm around his shoulders as Joly curls up next to him and puts his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Life’s hard,” Joly murmurs into Grantaire’s shirt.

“I know,” says Grantaire quietly, stroking Joly’s hair gently. “But you’ll get through it. You always will. And in the meantime, I’m here.”

Joly sighs. “I know. And thank you.”

Grantaire half-smiles and picks up the bottle to take another swig. “Anytime.”

The next day Joly will be back to his cheery self and they won’t talk about this evening, spent the way so many others have been.

Because they don’t need to talk about it.


	11. Prompt 10 - Courf/Jehan First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have mentioned earlier, if there's anything you want to see me write (even if it's a different pairing than E/R and Courf/Jehan), feel free to let me know, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](http://www.kjack89.tumblr.com).

Courfeyrac was nervous. Like hands shaking, palms sweating, knees knocking nervous.  
  
Tonight was the night. The night he was going to tell Jehan how he felt. And he was terrified. 

He had admired, respected and - yes - loved the poet for so long that it seemed any words he could possibly muster to try and explain the mess of feelings he had could only pale in comparison to the emotions himself. Especially since if there was one thing that Jehan knew better than anyone, it was words.

He had tried to write a poem for him, starting with a sonnet and working his way down to a haiku, but thirteen aborted attempts later - all of which started with “Flowers for Jehan” - Courfeyrac had a ream’s worth of crumpled paper in his garbage can and had been no closer to articulating just how he felt.

So it was with trepidation that he climbed the steps to the back room of the Musain. Joly was the first one to see him, and his normally cheery grin fell into a look of concern. “Are you alright?” he asked Courfeyrac. “You look like you’re going to throw up.”

“I feel like I’m gonna puke,” Courfeyrac told him in undertones, though he smiled at him as well. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?” asked Jehan, who had apparently listened in. 

He rested a hand against Courfeyrac’s arm and Courfeyrac blanched at the contact. “Um, no. I mean, yes. I mean - um - I’m fine, thanks.”

A cool voice cut across the room. “If Courfeyrac’s sure he’s fine, we can get started,” said Enjolras, favoring Courfeyrac with a slightly inquisitive frown.

“I’m fine—” started Courfeyrac, but Jehan cut him off.

“I really don’t think you are, Courf, you look awful.”

Joly nodded in agreement, covertly trying to feel Courfeyrac’s forehead for a fever. “It’s probably best if you go home and rest. Your pulse is racing.”

“I am fine,” said Courfeyrac loudly. “I’m not going home. I have something I need to do tonight.”

Looking affronted, Joly asked, “What in the world do you have to do tonight that’s so important, more important than your health?”

Enjolras sighed. “If it’s going to be a cause of distraction all evening,” he said, mild exasperation and irritation in his voice, “perhaps you should get whatever it is over with.”

Courfeyrac felt panic rising in his chest, and he looked around wildly before his eyes met Jehan’s. “Courf?” asked Jehan carefully. “What’s going on?”

“I…I like you,” whispered Courfeyrac, feeling like a complete idiot. “Like, I  _like_  like you.”

Jehan went very still. “You…you like me?” 

Courfeyrac’s ears were flaming red. “I didn’t mean to tell you like we were back in sixth grade or something,” he mumbled desperately as Jehan just looked at him. “I mean I may as well have passed you a note that says, ‘Check yes or no’, right? This was the phenomenally worst way to tell you, I realize that, I just—”

He was cut off by Jehan, who surged toward him and pressed a hard kiss to his lips. Courfeyrac seemed to temporarily stop breathing as one hand instinctively reaching up to tangle in Jehan’s hair, the other snaking around his waist to pull him closer.

Neither man knew how long the moment lasted until someone - Bahorel, probably, and Courfeyrac made a mental note to kill him later - cleared his throat loudly and both men broke apart, rather reluctantly, Courfeyrac flushed, Jehan grinning like a fiend. 

There was a brief silence during which time Courfeyrac cleared his throat and asked nervously, “So, do you…do you like me too?”

“Of course, you fool,” Jehan whispered, still grinning. “I’ve had a thing for you for ages.”

“Really?” Courfeyrac asked, breaking into a wide grin before pulling Jehan into another kiss.

Their friends, all of whom had known about this for ages, broke out into whoops, catcalls, and cheers as Jehan and Courfeyrac kissed. When they broke apart again, Courfeyrac grinned and stood, offering Jehan his hand. “Want to go for a walk? And maybe talk a bit?”

“Nah,” said Jehan, wicked gleam in his eyes as he stood, taking Courfeyrac’s proffered hand in his. “I can think of much better things to do than talk…”

Courfeyrac kept grinning like an idiot as Jehan pulled him out of the Musain, ignoring Enjolras’s indignant shouts at their retreating backs, their fingers laced together. “I thought you of anyone would appreciate value of talking and words.”

“And I do,” said Jehan, tossing a smile over his shoulder at Courfeyrac as he squeezed his hand, “but you and I have spent years talking. And I figured now was the time for action.”

And well, Courf couldn’t really argue with that.


	12. Prompt 11 - E/R Sleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of that prompt from a bit ago.

The first time Grantaire spent the night at Enjolras’s, he thought Enjolras didn’t sleep. At all. When he fell asleep, still wrapped in the post-coital cocoon of contentment, Enjolras was at his desk. “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll join you,” Enjolras murmured.

Of course, Grantaire, from years of sleeping in shitty apartments on even shittier mattresses, could fall asleep anywhere and sleep like the dead. So he was out like a light.

When he woke the next morning, it was to an empty bed. The sheets had already been creased and dented from their  _activities_  the previous evening, so he had no way of knowing whether Enjolras had actually made it to bed. 

Sitting up, he saw Enjolras hunched in the same position he had been when Grantaire fell asleep, a fresh mug of coffee at his elbow. “Good morning,” Grantaire mumbled, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “Did you sleep at all?”

Enjolras just flashed him a tired grin and said, “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen.”

After that, Grantaire tried to stay awake as long as he could, feigning sleep to wait for Enjolras to come to bed. Every time, though, he was inevitably asleep before the blond’s curl spread across the pillow next to him.

He chalked it up to Enjolras being an insomniac, though he half-thought that perhaps Enjolras really was the god come down to earth that Grantaire joked about him being.

What he didn’t know was that Enjolras just didn’t sleep well.

Enjolras had never slept well.

It was a product of his always working brain; he couldn’t turn it off long enough to get a full night’s sleep. In fact, when he started dating Grantaire, he slept for maybe an hour at a time, waking fitfully, pacing his apartment tiredly.

But then Grantaire had spent the night the first time. And Enjolras lay next to him, stretched on his back, trying to calm his thoughts so he could get a few hours of sleep. 

Then Grantaire had rolled over in his sleep, flinging an arm across Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras had expected this to make things even worse for him, but instead he found himself slowly drifting off, curling into Grantaire’s embrace.

From then on, he had found the way that he could sleep.

He liked to wait until Grantaire was asleep before fitting himself carefully next to the other man, resting his chin in that perfect spot where Grantaire’s neck met his shoulder, wrapping his arm around Grantaire’s waist, and letting the other man’s steady breathing and steady heartbeat soothe him to sleep. Because when he slept like this, he could sleep for hours at a stretch, undisturbed, his mind finally quiet.

It was wonderful, sleeping like this. Enjolras found that he woke refreshed, much more able to focus on his work, and more alert throughout the day. Though part of him initially rebelled at the idea of needing Grantaire so much, mostly he welcomed it for what it was - relief. And relaxation.

And if he happened to also enjoy the feeling of the other man in his arms…well, that was just an added benefit.

One night Grantaire awoke suddenly in the middle of the night. It took him a moment to orient himself and even longer moment to realize it was Enjolras pressed against him, snoring contentedly. Though Grantaire half wanted to roll over, to see the lines of worry and thought that normally creased Enjolras’s forehead relaxed in sleep, he didn’t move. He didn’t dare move, not wanting to wake the man, not wanting to wake them both from this dream, though his mouth couldn’t help but curve into a wide grin. So Enjolras did sleep. And in the most perfect way possible. 

The grin was not yet ended when he woke the next morning to see Enjolras at his desk, working as always. Enjolras glanced over at him, smiling as well. “What are you grinning at?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire replied as he sat up. “Just you.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and asked teasingly, “Oh, so I’m nothing, am I?”

Where Enjolras’s tone was joking, Grantaire’s was serious as he rose from bed, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’s shoulders from behind and pressing a light kiss to his temple. “No. You’re everything.”

Enjolras swiveled around to look at Grantaire. “What’s gotten in to you today?”

Grantaire just smiled and kissed him. “Nothing, I promise. I just got a really, really good night’s sleep.”


	13. Interlude 2 - On Sculpting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...This just kind of wrote itself, so.

Grantaire doesn’t sculpt. When asked about it, he’ll tell them it’s because it was just never his medium, that his hands don’t work that way. He doesn’t tell them that one time Enjolras dropped by the art studio to drop something off for Feuilly and saw him sculpting. “What are you working on?” he had asked.

Grantaire had been attempting a sculpture of Enjolras, but he couldn’t  _tell_  him that, so he said, “Apollo.”

And Enjolras had looked at it with a critical eye, and said, “It could use some more work.”

Grantaire never sculpted again.

_What he didn’t know was that Enjolras thought Grantaire was trying to sculpt in the style of Polykleitos’s Apollo, which they had just discussed the other day, and was trying to offer what he thought was supportive criticism (never mind how misguided)._

_What he didn’t know was that after every disparaging remark Grantaire had ever made on one of Enjolras’s speeches, Enjolras would go home that night and rewrite it to answer every single one of Grantaire’s criticisms. And that he_ always  _thought the speech was better for it in the end._

_What he doesn’t know is that to this day Enjolras still wonders why Grantaire never sculpts anymore._


	14. Prompt 12 - Courf/Jehan Proposal

In retrospect, Courfeyrac probably shouldn’t have asked Bossuet for help.

It had been so innocent; Courfeyrac had been visibly worrying over something, Bossuet had asked what was wrong, Courfeyrac had told him, and Bossuet had offered to help.

But when the thing that Courfeyrac was worried about was proposing to Jehan…well, let’s just say that there were better people that Courfeyrac could have asked for help. Éponine, for instance. Or Cosette. Combeferre. Grantaire. Feuilly. Bahorel. Joly (or Musichetta). Hell, he would have been better off asking  _Enjolras_  for help with this. And that in and of itself was saying something.

It wasn’t that Bossuet didn’t mean well, because he  _did_. And his puppydog excited face when Courfeyrac had told him he was planning on proposing to Jehan was what had made Courfeyrac cave and ask if Bossuet wanted to help.

Still, he should have given him a small task. Something manageable. Something even Bossuet - bless him - couldn’t mess up with his luck.

But no. He had asked Bossuet to look after the poem that Courfeyrac had written for Jehan, the poem he had planned to give Jehan. The poem that Jehan was supposed to read as Courfeyrac knelt to the ground, pulling the ring out of his pocket so that when Jehan was done reading, he would lower the paper and see Courfeyrac kneeling there, asking the love of his life to marry him. Courfeyrac had painstakenly written it onto nice, thick, cream-colored stationary, alternating colors of ink because he knew Jehan would like that. He had rolled it up and tied a ribbon around it, which was why he needed Bossuet to bring it to him, because if he had carried it around with him all day, Jehan would’ve noticed.

But Bossuet was  _late_.

Courfeyrac had planned on asking Jehan to marry him in their favorite park, in the flower garden. But they had strolled through the garden - twice - with no sign of Bossuet (who was supposed to have casually slipped him the poem before they left the coffeeshop, damnit).

Instead, Jehan was pulling him in the direction of the nearby shopping center. “I need to run a few errands. You don’t mind, do you?”

Mind? Why in the world would Courfeyrac mind? It wasn’t as if all of his plans were falling apart. Nope, he didn’t mind in the slightest.

So instead of proposing to his boyfriend, he found himself trailing after Jehan, who was apparently in need of deodorant and - Jesus Christ - new underwear (and of course only Jehan could find the most lurid pair of purple and pink checkered boxer-briefs, and there was literally nothing more mood killing than that). 

Courfeyrac had given up all hope of salvaging the situation when suddenly - “Attention!” A voice boomed over the intercom, and Jehan and Courfeyrac both looked up, startled, because the voice was Bossuet’s. “Um, so I’m a terrible friend and I was supposed to deliver something for someone but I got a flat tire, and I fixed it, but, well, I got another one and anyway, long story short, I didn’t get it to him in time. But I know he’s here so I’m just gonna do this.”

Courfeyrac paled visibly. “Oh no,” he muttered, looking around wildly as if he could find Bossuet and stop him. “Ohnoohnoohno.” Jehan was just looking at him in confusion.

And then Bossuet started reading the poem.

“Roses are red, violets are blue  
I love you, Jean Prouvaire  
You know I do  
I can’t write poetry worth a damn  
But had to try to say  
You make me a better man”

Jehan was giving Courfeyrac a look of complete bafflement. “Courf, why is Bossuet reading a love poem to me?”

“You are my best friend, the song  
That I sing; With you  
I can never be wrong”

Courfeyrac was bright red. “Um, it’s a bit of a long story, really…”

“You are the love of my life  
I’ve known it all along  
Through thick and thin, against all strife  
So read my terrible poem if you can  
Because I want to ask you—”

Bossuet’s voice broke off and Jehan and Courfeyrac, who had been staring at each other, both looked around, startled again. Then Bossuet spoke once more. “Um, sorry Courf. I lost the second page. And, well, security’s here to escort me out. I’m apparently banned for life.” He sounded far too cheerful when he said that, but then again, Bossuet was used to being banned from places for doing often innocent things that just tended to go terribly wrong.

Jehan looked back at Coufeyrac, eyes wide. “What did the end of the poem say?” he asked quietly.

Courfeyrac ran a hand across his still-red face. “I don’t know if now is really the time or the place,” he muttered. “It definitely isn’t what I had planned.”

“Courfeyrac.” Jehan so very rarely used Courferyac’s full name. “Tell me what the end of the poem said. Please.”

Looking at him for a long moment, the man that he so deeply loved, standing in the middle of a shopping center holding deodorant and a pair of hideous boxer-briefs and looking equal parts confused, intrigued and far, far too calm, Courfeyrac took a deep breath. “It said,   
‘So read my terrible poem if you can  
Because I want to ask you  
Will you marry me, Jehan?’” 

Then, figuring he might as well do this all the way, he pulled the ring box out of his pocket and knelt down. “So…” he said slowly, hardly daring to look up at Jehan, instead examining the floor tiles as if they were fascinating, “um, will you? Marry me?”

There was a long silence, then he felt Jehan’s fingers gently tip his chin up so that their eyes met. “Of course I will marry you,” Jehan told him, grinning.

“Really?” Courfeyrac breathed, breaking out into a grin.

“Of course, you goof,” laughed Jehan, tugging Courfeyrac up so that he could kiss him.

Courfeyrac kissed him enthusiastically, ignoring the people who had stopped to applaud the pair. “I was so worried I had blown it. When Bossuet didn’t get the poem to me like he was supposed to, and I wasn’t able to do it in the garden—” 

“This was perfect,” said Jehan firmly, cutting Courfeyrac off. “I wouldn’t trade this for anything. I mean it.”

As Jehan slipped the ring onto his finger and held it up, admiring the look of it, Courfeyrac sent a quick text to Bossuet. “ _He said yes! And thank you - you’ve made me a very lucky man_.”


	15. Prompt 13 - E/R Babysitting

“Please, Enjolras?” Éponine pleaded. “Courfeyrac was supposed to watch him, but he got called in to work.”

Enjolras sighed. He had planned on spending the afternoon catching up on a few recently released articles about immigration reform, not looking after Gavroche for Éponine. “Éponine, you know I’m no good with kids. Even Gavroche. Isn’t there anyone else you could call?”

“I already did,” said Éponine dryly. “You were the last on my list.”

Frowning, Enjolras tried to decide if he should feel insulted by this, but to be fair, he would be the last person even he would think of to look after a kid. “Fine,” he sighed finally. “Grantaire will be off work soon anyway so he can help me look after him.”

Éponine sighed in relief. “Thanks, Enj. You’re really saving my ass here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Enjolras.

“I’ll drop Gavroche off in five.”

Enjolras hung up and shoved his phone in his pocket. He ran a hand through his hair as he surveyed his and Grantaire’s apartment. It was in no worse state than normal, but he still supposed he should hide Grantaire’s booze bottles in one of the cabinets.

He did so quickly as he waited for Éponine to show up with Gavroche. The always energetic Gav bounced into Enjolras’s apartment just as he was finished up. “Hey, Enjy,” he said with a cheeky grin.

Scowling, Enjolras asked wearily, “Has Courfeyrac been using that asinine nickname behind my back again?”

Gavroche grinned. “He told me to ‘use the fifth’.”

“It’s ‘plead the fifth’,” Enjolras sighed distractedly, “and I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t cover this situation since this isn’t technically self-incrimination…”

Éponine poked her head in just long enough to thank Enjolras again before glaring at Gavroche. “Behave,” she commanded before leaving Enjolras and Gavroche alone together.

Enjolras just looked at Gavroche, who stared back at him, still grinning. “Um, do you want something to eat? Or drink?” asked Enjolras awkwardly.

Gavroche brightened. “Do you have any soda?” he asked eagerly.

Enjolras frowned and checked the fridge. “No, but Grantaire has a Monster energy drink I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you having if you want that.”

Since Enjolras’s back was to Gavroche, he didn’t see the evil grin that spread across the boy’s face. “That sounds perfect.”

* * *

 

Grantaire poked his head into the apartment almost cautiously. He knew that Enjolras was looking after Gavroche, and honestly, it was either going to be a complete disaster or just fine. 

All he heard was silence, which concerned him more than it probably should. He crept into the living room and saw Enjolras, absorbed in his laptop, Gavroche sprawled across the couch, fast asleep. 

Enjolras looked up and Grantaire raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Gavroche. Shrugging, Enjolras jerked his chin toward the bedroom.

Grantaire strolled down to hall to the bedroom, waiting patiently for Enjolras to join him. He gave Enjolras a look. “What’s wrong with Gavroche?” he asked as soon as Enjolras came in and shut the door behind him.

Looking affronted, Enjolras said, “Nothing!” When Grantaire just raised an eyebrow, Enjolras elaborated, “Well, he drank two of your Monsters and ate an entire package of Oreos, and then threw up and passed on the couch, but it’s not a big deal. He said he felt fine after he vomited.”

Grantaire gaped at him. “He…what?”

Enjolras repeated himself and Grantaire just continued to stare at him. He knew Enjolras was bad with kids, but…

“So let me get this straight,” said Grantaire, his face carefully blank. “You let the kid have about a two-liter’s worth of caffeine and as much sugar as he wanted, and you thought this would be a good idea?”

Enjolras shrugged. “He said it’s what he wanted.”

Grantaire barely managed to control the impulse to roll his eyes. “He’s a KID, Enj. You’re the adult - you’re supposed to be the authority figure.”

Frowning deeply, Enjolras said defensively, “All men are created equal, Grantaire. It’s one of the fundamental laws of humanity. And authority is derived from the consent of the people. I don’t recall Gavroche consenting to my authority.”

This time Grantaire could not help but roll his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, he’s a twelve year old. He’s not consenting to ANYONE’S authority.”

“Well what was I supposed to do?” protested Enjolras.

Rubbing his forehead tiredly, Grantaire looked at the ceiling as if for divine support. “In general,” he said, as patiently as possible, “as a good rule of thumb, if you wouldn’t let Courfeyrac do it, you probably shouldn’t let Gav do it.”

“Oh.” Enjolras frowned as he thought about it, then his eyes widened.  ”OH. That makes a lot of sense.”

Grantaire could no longer contain himself, breaking into snorts of laughter. “You are so lucky that you’re so good at so many other things,” he told Enjolras.

Though Enjolras tried to scowl, he couldn’t help but grin sheepishly. “Well, that’s why I have you,” he told Grantaire, kissing him gently on the forehead. “For everything I can’t do.”

Making a face, Grantaire kissed him on the nose. “Thankfully for me, there’s not much you CAN’T do.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed, ready to start their usual argument over Grantaire’s relative self-worth, but a groan from the living room interrupted them.

“I think I’m gonna barf again,” Gavroche called. 

“That’s all you,” said Grantaire cheerfully, kissing Enjolras once more. “I’ll be right here waiting when you’re done.”

Enjolras pouted. “You’re not gonna come help me? Please? You’re better with kids than I am.”

“Marius is better with kids than you are and that’s saying something,” Grantaire grumbled, but he took Enjolras’s hand and let him tug him toward the living room. “But you’re gonna owe me. Big time.”

“And I’ll pay you back, I promise,” whispered Enjolras, nuzzling him gently and squeezing his ass covertly. “Tonight.”

The thought of that almost made up for Grantaire having to help Enjolras clean vomit out of the carpet. Almost.


	16. Prompt 14 - Possessive!Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JJ, who inspired the idea and thus gets credit for the prompt.

For perhaps the first time in, well, ever, Grantaire did not want to go out drinking. It was just - this thing with Enjolras,  _whatever_  it was they were doing, was so new, the last thing he wanted to do was ruin it, which, with alcohol in the mix, he was more than liable to do.

But then Courfeyrac, who was perhaps more observant than he otherwise let on, mentioned slyly, “Enjolras agreed to come out with us…”

With that, Grantaire decided to go out with them. But as soon as he got shoved in the backseat of Combeferre’s car with Enjolras, he instantly regretted it.

Enjolras smiled tightly at Grantaire. “Hi,” he said quickly.

“Um, hey,” said Grantaire, feeling suddenly nervous.

Enjolras looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm against the back of Combeferre’s seat. Grantaire swallowed and dragged his eyes away from Enjolras’s fingers, trying for all the world to not think about what Enjolras had done with those fingers the last time they were together.

It shouldn’t be this hard. They slept together (which Grantaire was still a little in shock over), more than once - four times to be exact (Grantaire was even more in shock over that - but it was just sex).

But then last night Grantaire had made what could possibly be the biggest mistake of his life, turning to Enjolras after they had collapsed on the bed together, and asked, still breathless, “So…what are we doing here, exactly?”

Enjolras had stiffened. “I don’t know…” he said slowly. “What do you want us to be doing?”

Grantaire had hemmed and hawwed and tried to laugh it off when what he should have said was that he had been in love with Enjolras since he could remember since it seemed like his stupid fucking life hadn’t really started until he had met Enjolras. But no. Grantaire couldn’t say that. So instead he had muttered something about how just having sex was good, and why did emotions need to complicate things, and Enjolras had just looked at him for a long moment before pulling his clothes on and leaving.

Which had led to this awkward car ride, squashed between Enjolras and an overly enthusiastic Bahorel, who had lost ‘rock-paper-scissors’ with Courfeyrac and was thus resigned to the backseat. 

When they got to the club, Grantaire went straight to the bar. Fuck his thought of not wanting to screw things up with Enjolras - he needed alcohol, and stat.

With two shots downed in moment, Grantaire ordered a beer and sipped at it, trying to calm his nerves. “Hey,” said the guy at the barstool next to him. “You here by yourself?”

Eying him cautiously, Grantaire half-shrugged. “Here with friends. They’re around somewhere. I just needed a drink first, before I could enjoy myself.” 

“Aw, and they didn’t want to come drink with you?” the guy asked with a grin that reminded Grantaire of a wolf. “Some friends they are.”

Grantaire laughed slightly, looking around for Enjolras and the others, distinctly uncomfortable. “Yeah, well, you know how that goes.”

The guy leaned forward. “Let me buy you a drink. You’re too cute to be sitting here drinking by yourself.”

“Um, sure,” said Grantaire, never one to pass up a free drink, even when it was coming from the rather skeezy guy who was hitting on him. He just hoped that one of his friends came over to grab a drink soon.

The guy signaled the bartender and slid Grantaire another beer just as Grantaire finished the one he was working on. “For you. I never caught your name…”

Grantaire raised the bottle to his lips and took a swig. “Um, Grantaire. It’s Grantaire.”

“Grantaire,” said the guy out loud, rolling it around on his tongue. “I like it. It’s different.” He leaned in closer to Grantaire, who subconsciously leaned away. “So, not to sound cliched, but do you come here often, Grantaire?”

“Not really,” muttered Grantaire, eyes darting around, trying to see if there were any of his friends nearby that he could signal to come over to the bar. “What about you?”

“Oh, every now and again,” said the guy with a smirk. “But it’s a great place to pick guys up at.”

Grantaire took another sip of his beer. “I can only imagine,” he said. “You know, I didn’t catch your name.”

The guy grinned again. “I know. I was saving it for somewhere a little more private. Why have you use it here when you could be screaming it in my apartment later tonight?”

That was the last straw. If Grantaire had been a cat, all the fur on his back would be standing straight up. “Yeah, um, thanks for the offer, and the beer, but, uh, not interested,” he said, moving to stand, but the guy was quick, reaching out to grab Grantaire’s arm before he could move away.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, Taire,” said the strange guy in an oily sweet voice, hand resting on Grantaire’s arm.

Just as soon as he had set his hand on Grantaire’s arm, it was gone as he was yanked backwards by Enjolras. Grantaire stared at him, eyes wide. Enjolras looked  _furious_ , eyes blazing, jaw set. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The guy just managed to tear his arm from Enjolras’s grip. “Hey man, I—”

“Did you know that Taire means ‘shut up’ in French?” Enjolras snapped, his voice a low growl. “Did you think telling my boyfriend to shut up would be a good way to hit on him?”

Grantaire froze. The other guy threw up his hands defensively. “Whoa, man, calm down - no harm meant, alright?”

Enjolras continued to glare at him, even while stepping over to stand next to Grantaire, slipping a possessive arm around Grantaire’s waist. “You fucking better not have meant any harm,” he practically snarled. “Now get the fuck out of here before I decide not to be so nice.”

At that, Bahorel and Courfeyrac materialized from seemingly out of nowhere, sporting identical menacing grins. The guy took one look at them and practically flew out the door, pausing just long enough to toss some bills on the bar. Grantaire turned to look at Enjolras, starting to say something but caught himself when he saw the furious look still in Enjolras’s eyes. “Outside, now,” growled Enjolras, stepping away from Grantaire, his jaw set.

Grantaire gulped and headed in the direction Enjolras indicated, to the alley that ran behind the club. As soon as they were outside, Enjolras grabbed him and pushed him against the wall, kissing him almost ferociously. Grantaire was frozen in shock for only a moment before weaving his fingers into Enjolras’s curls and kissing him back just as eagerly.

They broke apart after a long moment, both breathing heavily, and Enjolras glared at him. “Do you have any idea how much I wanted to deck that asshole in the face?” he said, and Grantaire blinked in surprise.

“How much  _you_  wanted to punch him? I was the one getting unwanted sexual advances,” he said in return, a frown furrowing his brow. “Besides, I didn’t realize you cared that much.”

“Didn’t realize I  _cared_  that much? For fuck’s sake, Taire,” snapped Enjolras, running his hand through his hair. “Seeing you get hit on by that creep was enough to make me want to strangle him. Or you. And to hear him call you ‘Taire’…Jesus  _fuck_  I would’ve floored him if it wasn’t for Combeferre reminding me that I can’t afford to get arrested right now.”

Grantaire had to bite back the grin that was threatening to burst across his face. Hearing Enjolras talk this way, to be this worked up, all over  _him_ …He cleared his throat. “You call me ‘Taire’.”

Enjolras shot him a glance. “That’s different.”

“Oh?” said Grantaire, smirking as he leaned against the wall. “How so?”

“Well for starters, I’m the only one fucking you,” said Enjolras dryly. Then he hesitated, and asked in a quieter voice, “Aren’t I?”

Grantaire almost choked. “Of course you are,” he said breathlessly, blushing and looking away. “Why would I have sex with anyone else in the entire goddamn world when I can have sex with you?”

Enjolras smiled, a real, genuine smile, though it quickly faded into something more serious. “You know that it’s not just sex, though, right? At least, not for me. I mean, if tonight didn’t prove that to you…” He broke off and bit his lip. “I don’t know what you want this to be, Taire, but for me - I want you to be mine.”

For a long moment, Grantaire didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t put to words the emotions coursing through his body. When he finally was able to speak, he asked with a half-smile, “So I’m your boyfriend now?”

“If you want to be…yes.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras and shrugged. “I can think of worse things to be.” Then he grinned, a wide grin that stretched from ear to ear. “Of course I want to be your boyfriend. God, I’ve wanted this forever, it seems like.”

Enjolras grinned as well, pulling Grantaire close and kissing him until they were both breathless. Grantaire looked up at Enjolras, mock-demure. “Had I known you were going to come so gallantly to my rescue, I would have let random strangers hit on me a long time ago.”

“Very funny,” huffed Enjolras, rolling his eyes, but Grantaire wasn’t done.

“No, I mean it, if I had known you would’ve made out with me in a dark alley and then ask me to be your boyfriend, I would’ve hired some skeeve to hit on me. Maybe I should do that anyway, see what your reaction would be if it happens again…”

Enjolras kissed him to shut him up. “Taire…” sighed Enjolras warningly into Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire just grinned.


	17. Prompt 15 - Jehan/Courf Drinking/Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey, remember when I was like, "Aw yiss this is all gonna be so fluffy yayz!"*? Well I lied. This chapter=not so fluffy.
> 
> Song at the beginning is "Do You Miss Me (Killians)?" by Lucky Boys Confusion. Slight trigger warnings for implied dub-con.
> 
> * _This may not actually be what I said._

“ _You’ve got your secrets_  
 _Reasons why you said it’s over_  
 _It was my ticket_  
 _To never again be truly sober_  
 _I’m so divided_  
 _Holding on while cursing you_  
 _But unlike you right now_  
 _I’m got nothing to prove_

_The radio plays our favorite song_    
 _It’s what keeps me holding on_  
 _Baby do you miss me_  
 _Now that I’m gone_ ”

For someone who fell in love as quickly and as completely as Jehan, he admittedly did not take heartbreak well. Case in point - when the musician he had been seeing awhile back had dumped him, he had smashed most of his CD collection and broken his iPod by throwing it against the wall (luckily for him, Grantaire had made him burned versions of most of his CDs, and even let Jehan borrow his iPod so long as Jehan promised to never go into the playlist entitled ‘Apollo’, which, to be honest, Jehan would never have done anyway; he tended to stick to Grantaire’s ‘E is a Douchenozzle’ playlist, which had songs that more fit Jehan’s mood at the time).

When Courfeyrac broke up with him, for reasons that really only seemed to make sense to Courfeyrac, it was different. Jehan did not cry, did not weep, did not write sonnet upon sonnet and ballad upon ballad begging for Courfeyrac to take him back, to realize their love and return to him.

Jehan got mad.

And when Jehan was angry, Jehan got even.

In this instance, getting even came in the form of Jell-o shots and tequila shots and mixed drinks of a questionable nature until Jehan could no longer tell if it was anger or alcohol coursing through his veins. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or alcohol that drove him to pull Grantaire onto the makeshift dance floor at the shitty house party they were at, grinding against Grantaire in a way that probably would’ve embarrassed him when sober, but he was too drunk and too furious to give a shit.

[ _Jehan didn’t see Grantaire’s face flush as his eyes met Enjolras’s across the party, or the slightly stubborn tilt of Grantaire’s head, as if to dare Enjolras to say something. He didn’t see the way Enjolras’s eyes narrowed, or the way his hand tightened on his drink. Jehan didn’t even notice when Grantaire got a text a moment later from Enjolras that read simply, “_ Can we talk?”]

The next thing Jehan knew, Grantaire was gone and he was dancing with some stranger, who was busy sucking hickies into his neck. Jehan found in a rather detached way that he kind of liked it, so made no move to stop him. Instead, he gazed around the party, meeting the eyes of Montparnasse, who cocked his head slightly and smiled slowly at him.

Ah, Montparnasse. One of Jehan’s more…interesting mistakes, if one wished to call it that. A one night stand that Jehan didn’t regret so much as not fully remember, save for the bruises that hurt in all the right ways the next morning.

In the space of a moment - or so it seemed to Jehan - Montparnasse had crossed over to him, tugging him away from the guy still sucking on his neck. “Jean Prouvaire,” drawled Montparnasse slowly, his eyes running up and down Jehan’s body almost hungrily. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“‘Parnasse,” Jehan slurred. “Shouldn’t you be putting your mouth to better use?”

Montparnasse’s eyes widened for just a second before he grinned, a wicked, almost feral grin. “What’s this? The poet who doesn’t want romance?”

Jehan narrowed his eyes. “Romance is for suckers,” he spat. Then he casually palmed the front of Montparnasse’s pants. “But I suppose if romance is what you’re looking for tonight, ‘Parnasse, I can always try someone else.”

Montparnasse captured Jehan’s hand in his own. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he whispered into Jehan’s ear before bending to kiss him.

The kiss was the opposite of romance, hot and demanding, more tongues and teeth than lips, but Jehan didn’t care, wrapping his hand in Montparnasse’s hair and yanking just hard enough to elicit a growl from Montparnasse that Jehan captured with his mouth. Montparnasse’s fingers were digging into Jehan’s hip in a way that would surely leave bruises, while his other hand was creeping under Jehan’s shirt to run across Jehan’s ribs in a way that made him shiver and rut against Montparnasse.

Montparnasse broke away, grinning wickedly. “What do you say we move this elsewhere?”

Jehan shrugged. “Works for me.” 

Montparnasse grabbed his hand and started pulling Jehan toward the door when suddenly Jehan heard someone yelling over the music at him. “Jehan!”

It was Grantaire, weaving his way unsteadily over to him, face full of concern. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

Jehan smiled, but it was almost a ferocious smile. “Where does it look like I’m going?”

Grantaire grabbed Jehan’s arm, pulling him close to speak to him in undertones. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked Jehan, frowning suspiciously at Montparnasse.

Jehan shrugged out of Grantaire’s grip. “Positive,” he said shortly. He took Montparnasse’s hand again but watched as Grantaire picked his way back across to Enjolras, whose forehead was wrinkled in concern. To Jehan’s surprise, a rather subdued looking Courfeyrac stood next to Enjolras, scanning the room mournfully.

Courfeyrac and Jehan’s eyes met across the crowded room, and Courfeyrac looked stricken. Jehan just shrugged and let Montparnasse tug him outside. Courfeyrac was too late.


	18. Prompt 16 - Dæmon Headcanon (E/R)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was a sort of prompt anyway...a lovely Nonny on Tumblr asked if I had any headcanons for dæmons like from _His Dark Materials_ by Phillip Pullman (If you've not read those books, by the way, this chapter will literally make no sense, sorry*).
> 
> So instead I wrote a canon-era HDM AU E/R-ish drabble. Yeah. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> **Canon Major Character Death**
> 
> *Some real quick background if you still want to read this but haven't read the books can be found [here](http://kjack89.tumblr.com/post/53837827094/what-is-a-daemon-ive-read-your-explanation-about-the).

Grantaire’s dæmon was late to settle.

When he was 16, they talked about it, he and Audactissime. She was in the form of a dog, curled up with her head in his lap. “When are you going to settle?" he asked her, stroking her head gently. 

Her sad brown eyes looked up at him, then away. “When you’re ready for me to," she said simply.

"All my friends’ dæmons have settled."

She let out a huff and licked his face. “You’re not your friends," she reminded him. “Do you feel like you know who you are?"

Grantaire considered this, but he knew as well as she that he had no clue who he was. Over the next few years, he still wouldn’t be sure of exactly who he was.

Then he met Enjolras. He had been captivated instantly by the man, Apollo come to Earth, in so many ways his opposite (or at least the opposite of everything Grantaire tried to be). He knew that he would give anything to spend every remaining moment of his life with Enjolras.

When he first met Enjolras, Audactissime flowed into the form of a cat, just this side of scrawny, with piercing green eyes and a smoky gray coat. Enjolras’s dæmon, Ceartais, one of the rare dæmons who was the same gender as his human, was a lion who fixed his amber colored eyes on her and bared his fangs in what was either a smile or a threat - much as with Enjolras, it was often hard to tell. When Grantaire took a seat in the back corner, she curled in his lap, eyes watching Ceartais as he paced restlessly behind Enjolras.

Audactissime stopped changing, and Grantaire was happy. She fit him; she was comfortable. He too could be like a cat, sometimes too proud, too independent, but also willing to seek companionship when desired. She wasn’t big, or intrusive, more designed to lurk in the corner than in the front of the room, but could be loud when needed. 

In other words, she was the physical embodiment of the side of himself that he showed Les Amis, and especially the side he showed Enjolras, the side he was most comfortable with. And he learned to ignore the niggling thought in the back of his mind that there was more to her - more to him - than just this side. She had settled. And he was fine.

She became a little more ragged as time dragged on, as he drank more and tried to care less. The toll on his body seemed to show up on hers as well. But as talk rose of revolution, he knew that neither would make it much longer anyway. What was another bottle of absinthe when in months’ or weeks’ time, they would both be dead?

One night when they were the only ones left in the Musain, Audactissime stretched and fixed her piercing gaze on him. “You mean for us to die with them." It was not a question.

Grantaire shrugged moodily and drained the bottle in front of him. “It seems to be the fashionable thing to do," he told her sardonically.

She looked at him for a long moment, unblinking, then she stood and stretched. “Just remember," she said, her voice so quiet that were they not intimately linked in every way imaginable he would not have heard her, “there are other ways to prove that you have worth to him."

He was given little time over the next few days to ponder what she meant by that. When he did get a spare moment, the only thing he could feel was anger and even resentment. She knew full well how he felt about Enjolras, but he also knew how she felt about Ceartais. It was she who had changed upon meeting them, who had become cowed in their presence.

They were not given time to discuss it between them as the barricades soon arose, and Grantaire chose to pass out, Audactissime curled in his lap.

When they awoke, Audactissime could not seem to settle down, her fur sticking up. It took a moment for Grantaire, as hungover - still drunk, more like - as he was, to place where he was and what was happening. But as soon as the situation made itself clear, he did what he had perhaps intended to all along without knowing it. “Vive la Republique!" he called. “I am one of them!"

In that moment, staring across the room at Enjolras, Grantaire felt something click into place inside himself. This was where he was meant to be - who he was supposed to be. Not someone hiding in the back corner, but here, standing tall beside the one that he loved more than the world, more than his own life, not as a lesser being, not as a shadow, but as his equal.

And as he felt this missing piece settle into place, he felt something else settle - Audactissime, who became a tigress at his side, those same piercing green eyes now matched with a snarl that shook the walls of the building. She had never settled - he knew that now - still waiting, still holding out, still hoping that he would become more than what he himself had settled for.

A part of his heart broke that he would only know her in this, her true form, for a few moments, but the proud set of her shoulders, the way her eyes met Ceartais’s unflinchingly, he knew it was enough. For him, for her, for them all. 

He turned to look at Enjolras, who met his eyes with a mix of pride and question. Grantaire picked his way across the room, passing by the National Guardsmen as if they didn’t exist at all. And as he reached Enjolras, he asked the question that had burned on his lips since meeting the beautiful blond. “Do you permit it?"

Grantaire knew now, though, that the question was not really for Enjolras. In these last moments, it did not matter if Enjolras permitted him - though he undoubtedly would, as Grantaire had become everything Enjolras had ever wished him to be - what mattered was that Grantaire had given himself permission to be so much more than he had let himself become.

And as Enjolras smiled, and took his hand, a warmth such as Grantaire had never known spread through his entire being as he smiled back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ceartais nuzzle Audactissime, just briefly, before they turned to snarl at the National Guardsmen, tails swishing in time with each other.

Then the shots were fired, and Grantaire fell, Audactissime crouched beside him. “You changed," he croaked as his lungs struggled to fill. They both tried to ignore the fact that Ceartais disappeared abruptly from his spot next to Enjolras; they would both be going the same way soon enough.

"You became who you were meant to be," she told him, her eyes dimming. “And by doing so, so did I." 

He just managed to tangle his fingers in her ruff. “Don’t leave me," he whispered raggedly.

"Not until the end," she promised, though her eyes were fixed on the spot where Ceartais had disappeared. “And then, you’ll be with him."

"And you’ll be with him," Grantaire just managed to say.

Mere seconds later, the tigress faded into nothingness, and Grantaire lay still at Enjolras’s feet. The smile they had shared had not fully faded from either of their faces.

“ _Pure on earth, but joined in heaven. They are souls possessed of sense. They lie among the stars_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Audactissime is Latin, the superlative form of Audacter, which means boldly, audaciously, fearlessly, and also rashly or impudently. Ceartais is Irish for justice. Dæmons who have the same gender as their humans are rare in His Dark Materials and Phillip Pullman has said even he doesn’t know why or how; it just seemed to fit Enjolras to me. Normally dæmons settle at some point during puberty; to the best of my knowledge, Pullman has not established an upward boundary on when a dæmon can settle, though I’m sure it’s long before when it would have occurred here. I just really liked the idea of Grantaire’s dæmon holding out, knowing he could be so much more and wanting him to realize it for himself._


	19. Interlude 3 - Dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a way to deal with my own feelings following the Texas filibuster as well as the Supreme Court decisions on DOMA and Prop 8.

When Grantaire woke in the morning, he was alone. Enjolras’s side of the bed was untouched, and Grantaire frowned slightly. He yawned and stretched before getting out of bed and padding into the living room in search of Enjolras. “Hey," he said when he found Enjolras stretched out on the couch, the TV on mute in the background as he stared fixedly at his laptop. “You didn’t come to bed last night."

Enjolras shrugged, automatically shifting his laptop and scooting over so Grantaire could lie down next to him, all without taking his eyes off the screen. “Big things were happening last night," he told Grantaire, looking away from his laptop for the first time to press a distracted kiss to Grantaire’s temple. “It took until almost 3am before they declared the bill dead in Texas, and then did you see about the things that were happening in Europe? Plus with Supreme Court rulings today…I knew I wasn’t going to be able to sleep. And I would’ve just woken you up."

"Mmmmm," hummed Grantaire in agreement as he laid his head against Enjolras’s chest. “But I still missed you."

Enjolras half-smiled. “I know." He petted Grantaire’s hair, running his fingers through the tousled curls. Suddenly, Enjolras froze, staring at the screen. “It’s been struck down. Taire, DOMA’s been struck down!" He pulled Grantaire closer to him, hugging him tightly. “Oh, thank God."

"Yay," said Grantaire, without much enthusiasm.

Enjolras frowned. “This is a monumental day in the gay rights movement and your response is ‘yay’?"

Grantaire sighed. “Look, I’m happy it’s been struck down, of course, but it’s not as if gay marriage is suddenly legal in the entire country. And same sex marriage isn’t the only gay rights issue, which everyone seems to forget. So forgive me for not leaping with joy."

"And the fact that if you and I were to get married, it would now be recognized by the federal government doesn’t make you just a little happy?" asked Enjolras softly.

"What, do you want to get married now that DOMA’s been struck down?" Grantaire asked wryly.

Enjolras squeezed his hand, forehead creased. “That’s not the point. This isn’t about  _us_ , Taire. Not really. The is about the legally married couples denied the same rights as others just because of who they love. This is for Edie and Thea, for everyone who has ever had to suffer through this kind of discrimination, for—"

Grantaire kissed Enjolras. “I know," he said, voice soft. “It was a joke."

Shooting him a glance, Enjolras asked, “Do you really think now is the time for jokes?"

"Now is always the time for jokes," sighed Grantaire. “If I weren’t allowed to make jokes until injustice is stamped out in the world, then I would never be allowed to talk again for as long as I lived."

Enjolras frowned and was about to retort when his eyes flickered back to the screen. “Hush, they’re ruling on Perry."He read impatiently, biting his lower lip as Grantaire huffed and laid his head back down. After a long silence Enjolras sighed. “It’s what I expected. A narrow non-ruling. Prop 8 is overturned but that’s about it."

"I’m sorry," said Grantaire softly. “I know you were hoping for a wider ruling."

Enjolras shrugged slightly and stood, setting his laptop down on the coffee table and pulling Grantaire up from the couch. “It’s still a good day," he said firmly. “Sometimes change comes in small steps, but we will continue fighting. And others will join us. And if - heaven forbid - the fight is not done in our lifetimes, then others will take our place and carry the fight onwards. Until the Earth is free."

Grantaire only just managed to not roll his eyes. “Whatever you say, Apollo."

Enjolras looked at him for a long moment, then pulled him close into an almost bone-crushing embrace, fisting his hands in the back of Grantaire’s t-shirt. “How?" he whispered, face pressed against Grantaire’s hair. “How can you see things like things, things that happened last night, the people filibustering and refusing to be silent, and then things like today, where injustice has been struck down, and not believe? How can you not believe that we will change the world?"

Grantaire held him for a long moment before pulling away, just slightly, just enough so he could look at Enjolras, his eyes serious. “I do believe," he said quietly. “I believe in you. But I also believe that the world is a very big place and that it will take the efforts of millions of apathetic individuals to make a lasting change, and that because of that, change is nearly impossible to achieve. So if you say you will change the world, well…I dare you to prove me wrong."

A small smile stole across Enjolras’s face. “You dare me, huh?"

Grantaire grinned, almost impishly. “That’s right," he said sweetly. “I  _dare_  you."

"You know I can’t resist a dare," said Enjolras, mock-warningly.

Grantaire pulled him in closer and kissed him gently on the lips. “I know," he whispered. “So prove me wrong. Please."


	20. Prompt 17 - E/R cheating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nonny who requested this prompt gave me the option of either E cheating on R or E cheating with R while dating someone else. I took the latter option as I have difficulty envisioning the first.

In some ways, it just natural. They had been best friends for so long, and Enjolras was so lost following his break-up with Grantaire, that it made sense for him to seek comfort in Combeferre.

The fact that it turned into something more was slightly unexpected.

But they worked together. They always had. Combeferre was everything Enjolras needed. He was patient, and calm, and smart. Never hasty. They never fought - how could they, when it seemed that they practically shared a mind?

Thus Combeferre was, in many ways, perfect.

Which meant that he was also completely wrong.

Because while there were things about dating Grantaire that Enjolras did not miss in the slightest, the nights when Grantaire drank himself to sleep or didn’t come home at all, or the nights when Grantaire got so fed up with Enjolras studying or planning the next protest that he stormed out, there were also things that he missed desperately, things that Combeferre, for all his positives, just could not supply.

The screaming fights that somehow always seemed to culminate in hot, angry sex. Holding hands and making out in some of the most inappropriate of spots just because they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. His name as a sigh from Grantaire’s lips, a moan from Grantaire’s lips, a curse from Grantaire’s lips.

He missed the passion.

Which was how Enjolras found himself inviting Grantaire over. To talk. Nothing more.

Combeferre was gone for the evening, having exiled himself to the library to study. And Enjolras…well, Enjolras could barely contain his excitement. 

It was wrong. It was wrong on so many levels for Enjolras to still want Grantaire in this way, to want anyone besides Combeferre, who had never been anything but completely loyal to him. But it also felt completely and dangerously right.

When the doorbell rang and Enjolras opened the door to Grantaire, his breath caught in his throat and he almost forgot whatever bullshit excuse he had come up with to invite Grantaire over. Grantaire looked _good_ , better than he did in Enjolras’s mind ( _better than he did in Enjolras’s fantasies…_ ), and Enjolras reflexively reached out to hug him. Halfway there he realized his mistake and tried to turn the hug into a handshake. “Um, Grantaire. Good of you to come over.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, bemused. “You asked me to come over, so here I am.” He brushed past Enjolras into the foyer and Enjolras subconsciously breathed in Grantaire’s scent. “What was it you wanted, anyway?”

Enjolras just stared at him. “Oh, um, I, uh—” He couldn’t stop himself, surging forward to capture Grantaire’s lips with his own. Grantaire froze for a moment, then opened his mouth to admit Enjolras’s tongue with just the hint of a sigh.

Enjolras tangled his hands in Grantaire’s hair and Grantaire moaned, throwing his head back and exposing his throat. Enjolras dropped his mouth to Grantaire’s neck, kissing and biting, sucking blood bruises into Grantaire’s skin. “Fuck, Enj," Grantaire groaned, skimming his hands up Enjolras’s sides.

"Bed?" Enjolras asked, lips brushing against Grantaire’s collarbone. Grantaire hummed in agreement and they stumbled down the hallway to tumble on to Enjolras’s bed the way they had hundreds of times before.

Enjolras tugged Grantaire’s shirt up and over his head, their lips parting only when forced to, then they instantly met again. Grantaire was trying to unbutton Enjolras’s shirt with shaking fingers and finally Enjolras had to help, unbuttoning the shirt and tossing it aside. Grantaire touched Enjolras’s chest gently, almost reverently, before taking one of Enjolras’s nipples in his mouth. “Fuck, Taire,” moaned Enjolras.

Grantaire kissed up Enjolras’s chest and neck, biting down on his pulse point in a way that would undoubtedly bruise. “Careful,” Enjolras laughed breathlessly. “We don’t want Ferre to see…”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had said something wrong. Grantaire shoved him away and sat up, running a shaky hand through his hair. “You’re still dating Combeferre?” he asked quietly.

Enjolras slowly sat up as well. “Um, yes. I am.”

“And you didn’t think you should have, I don’t know, fucking mentioned that before groping me?” Grantaire snapped, pointedly not looking at Enjolras as he grabbed his t-shirt from the floor.

Frowning, Enjolras responded coolly, “I didn’t think it was particularly important. I mean, this is just sex, you know?”

Grantaire looked at him, furious. “No, I don’t know. Because this was never ‘just sex’ to me, Enjolras. Our whole relationship, after everything that happened – how could you think this would just be sex?”

“I didn’t think you would still feel that way about me,” said Enjolras in a small voice, beginning to realize his mistake. “I thought…I just…I missed what we had. And I just wanted it back. Just once.”

“ _You_  broke up with  _me_ , remember?" snapped Grantaire, his voice steely. “You could have had this, Enj, and you chose to give it up. And I’ve had to live with that."

Enjolras reached out to touch Grantaire’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, really I am. But that doesn’t mean – I mean, we can still have what we had before. If you wanted.”

Grantaire snorted. “Oh, and what would your  _boyfriend_  think of that?”

“Combeferre wouldn’t have to know,” said Enjolras carefully. “And even if he did, I’m sure he would understand. He’s a rational man; he would understand that there are some things that I need that he can’t satisfy. He wants to make me happy, after all.”

Grantaire was still looking at Enjolras with an inscrutable expression on his face. “And what do you want, Enjolras? What would make you happy?”

Enjolras smiled. “At the moment? You.”

He reached out, tentatively, cupping Grantaire’s cheek, running his thumb over Grantaire’s cheekbone, before kissing him, gently this time, sweetly. Grantaire melted into the kiss, but just for a moment. Then he stood, abrupt and angry. “No.”

“Taire? What’s wrong?”

Grantaire chuckled dryly. “What’s wrong? You honestly have the fucking nerve to ask me what’s wrong?” Enjolras just stared at him. “What’s wrong is the assumption that I would so willingly fall into bed with you at the first sign that you wanted me back.”

“Well, you did, didn’t you?” Enjolras snapped, frustrated. “So was I wrong to assume so?”

Grantaire looked as if he had been slapped. Then he looked away and took a deep breath. “You breaking up with me was the best thing that could have happened to me," Grantaire told him, tears shining in his eyes, “because it made me realize that I was worth something, worth so much more than just being with you. So if you think I’m going to give that up, if you think I’m going to go through this again with you – think again."

He strode toward the door, then paused in the doorway, turning to look at Enjolras with something close to scorn in his eyes. “And you better tell Combeferre about this when you see him. Because if you don’t, I will."

Then he was gone. Enjolras stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, as if hoping Grantaire would change his mind, would turn around, would come back and tell Enjolras that he hadn’t meant it, that he still loved Enjolras.

There was a time when that would have happened.

But not anymore. And when Enjolras realized Grantaire wasn’t coming back, he numbly picked up his phone to text Combeferre. " _When you get home, we need to talk_." Then he set his phone on the nightstand, brought his knees up to his chest, and began to cry.


	21. Prompt 18 - Éponine/Combeferre Bedroom/house/living quarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternately titled, _The four times Éponine did not move in with Combeferre, and the one time she did._

Combeferre first suggested that Éponine move in with him before they were even together. She came to his place after a particularly nasty fight with Montparnasse, the kind that had resulted in her having a black eye. After calmly offering to kill him for her – this was less funny and far more chilling than it should have been, Combeferre’s jaw clenched, a righteous fury in his eyes as he held the ice pack against Éponine’s cheek with surprising tenderness – he made the offer.

She hadn’t really been surprised that he would offer, and she brushed it off quickly. He hadn’t meant it – this was just one of those things that friends said, that they offered in these situations.

It was hard to ignore how nice it felt sleeping in his soft bed, and even harder to ignore how much nicer it would feel with him next to her (as he had gallantly slept on the sofa).

And it was the hardest to ignore that it was this night above all others that finally reminded her of the strength she had, the strength she used to break up with Montparnasse (and maybe “accidentally" break his nose in the process).

Combeferre brought it up again about a month into their dating. He had taken her back to her place and had unfortunately witnessed one of her downstairs neighbors shooting up on the front stoop. As Éponine began to slide out of the car, he caught her arm, and made the offer again. Éponine had just huffed a quick laugh, dropped a peck on his cheek and taken off.

Éponine could take care of herself. Even in this neighborhood.

Besides, she had Gavroche to think of, and while, yes, he hadn’t slept at her place lately, she still needed to think about him.

The third time Combeferre offered, it was when Éponine was curled up on his couch, draped in his thickest quilt, steaming mug of tea in her hands. Her heater had gone out, and as it was the middle of winter, Combeferre was worried about her. She had smiled as much as possible given her clacking teeth, and spent the night curled up against Combeferre’s warm chest. And in the morning she was gone.

Éponine didn’t need Combeferre’s charity.

And yeah, ok, maybe it was the third time her heater had broken that month alone, and yes, the insulation in her apartment was absolute shit and she knew it. But she  _liked_  living on her own, liked being able to support herself.

She didn’t need anybody.

But she was running out of excuses. And she knew it.

The fourth time came in the middle of a fight. Or rather, the end of a fight. It wasn’t a big fight, which is to say it wasn’t a fight about something important, but like so many things left unsaid between them of late, it had so much more to it than just the surface argument. The tension that had brewed between them had exploded into a storm of massive proportions, and left them shouting and screaming at each other over something that neither could quite remember.

Finally, Éponine furiously grabbed her purse. “I’m leaving,” she told him, eyes blazing. “And I’m not coming back.”

This deflated Combeferre faster than anything else she could have said. “Stay,” he begged, softly, and they both knew that he meant for more than just that night, for more than just that fight. “Please, Ép, I’m sorry – just don’t leave.”

She left.

The fifth time, he didn’t offer. He didn’t have to.

Éponine showed up outside his door with her bags in hand, looking at him with equal parts sadness and desperation. “I got kicked out of my apartment,” she told her. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Without saying a word, he pulled her close, hugging her as she cried into his t-shirt. When her tears subsided, he kissed her, gently, sweetly. “You  _always_  have someplace to go,” he told her.

She looked up at him and he could see the emotions play out in her eyes – indecision, resentment, fear, longing, and just a hint of something that might be called love – before settling on grateful. “Thank you,” she told him, truthfully. “And about before—”

“We’ll work it out,” he promised, taking one of her bags from her and ushering her inside. “We always will.”


	22. Prompt 19 - Joly Childhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for self-harm**. Modern high school AU.

Joly had been on some form of medication for almost as long as he could remember.

It had started with his mother, who had meant well, undoubtedly, but who overreacted to every ailment he had when he was a baby and toddler and taken him constantly to the hospital. He had been on asthma medication since he was about four, and various other allergy meds besides that (including the EpiPen that he was forced to carry with him, just in case - though in case of what, she never said).

When he was 12, he made the mistake of telling her that some boys were picking on him at school. This led to antidepressants and a bimonthly appointment with the psychiatrist.

He had been on antidepressants (and anti-anxiety meds, as well as some medications for bipolar disorder, and ADHD, and a number of other conditions) ever since.

He was 15 years old when a friend passed him a joint in the car, and he took a puff with little hesitation, telling himself, “Hey, it’s medicinal."

"Hey, it’s medicinal" became his mantra for a variety of things. The alcohol he drank for the first time, the time he tried to trip out on DXM, the pills he swallowed obediently at a party.

And the small row of surgically precise cuts that crept up the insides of both his arms.

He couldn’t remember now what gave him the idea, only remembers holding his mother’s Exacto knife, blade already sterilized, above the cluster of veins in his wrist. He drew the blade across his skin with hands that did not shake, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding as the blood spreads slowly from the thin cut.

He mops the blood. He sterilizes the wound. He puts on antibiotic ointment and a bandage.

The cuts don’t scar.

Which is fine. They’re for him, and him alone, not for showing off, for flaunting. He’d rather not be like Grantaire, who wears long sleeves even in the summer to hide what he’d rather not show their friends, even if their friends all already know. He’d rather not be like Jehan, who wears stacks of bracelets, or wristbands, or just ballpoint pen drawings to cover up his scars.

And he’d rather not have to explain. Because they won’t get it.

And even if they did, he’d rather not be cast with Grantaire, with Jehan, with those who wear their suffering and their pain so clearly marked on their skin.

He doesn’t begrudge them that (maybe even envies them for it). But that’s not what this is about. Not for him.

He wonders at how much self-hatred must have gone into the scars that mar Grantaire’s forearms (and upper arms, and stomach, and legs…), the scars that have been scratched open again and again, piled on top of each other as if one more will make the difference ( _one more will make him see_ ). He sees the angry marks along the insides of Jehan’s arms and imagines the pain and the hurt that the poet must go through, he who sees the world so much more clearly than the rest of them. These scars have a poetry of their own, some soft and curving, others harsh and stark.

They don’t see the nearly invisible silvery scars that line his arms in neat rows. And even if they did, if Grantaire and Jehan saw, they wouldn’t understand.

Because Joly doesn’t cut himself because he’s hurt, or angry, or self-hating.

He cuts himself so he can feel anything at all.

_He’ll be glad for other reasons later in life that the cuts don’t scar. When he finally tells his mother ‘no’, and gets off the meds that he probably shouldn’t have been on in the first place, when he realizes that what he wants to do with his life is medicine, he’ll realize that the cuts would just be a reminder of a time he’d rather forget, a time that he lived through and that made him stronger, yes, but a time he doesn’t need to relive every day._

_They’ll all get better, all move past high school and all their scars – for none truly leave without scars of some variety, and the ones that people can’t see are often the ones that take longest to heal (Courfeyrac heals his scars in gentle kisses pressed to Jehan’s wrist and the scars that he tells the poet he would have prevented if he had known – Jehan tells him he couldn’t have known, and in doing so begins to forgive himself a little; Enjolras heals his scars perhaps last of all, when he first tells Grantaire how he feels, and then again when Grantaire wraps his arms around him and tells him, in a sure, confident voice, that the scars that still dot Grantaire’s arms and legs, that will probably never fully fade, aren’t Enjolras’s fault)._

_And besides, if he holds his arm a certain way under certain light, Joly can still see them, all his scars, lined in up their neat rows, all the same length, all the same width._

_And he’ll be reminded of how far he’s come, how strong he’s been, and how much he’s felt and will continue to feel – love and loss and sadness and joy – and perhaps most of all: hope._


	23. Interlude 4 - 'Dog'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire & Jehan friendship.

Grantaire got a dog.

He hadn’t planned on getting a dog. Hell, he hadn’t planned on getting a  _pet_. He could barely remember to feed, wash and occasionally walk himself, for Christ’s sake. Adding a living, breathing creature that relied on him was possibly the worst idea of all time.

But then Prouvaire - of course it was fucking Prouvaire, it always seemed to be - showed up outside his flat with a squirming, mangy-looking mop of fur that vaguely resembled a dog.

"Is that a dog?" asked Grantaire stupidly.

Jehan set the thing down on the ground. “Of course it’s a dog," he said, smiling warmly at Grantaire. “I thought you might take care of it for awhile."

Grantaire looked down at the dog, who looked up at him, tongue lolling from the side of its mouth, then looked back up at Jehan. “Why in the world would you think that?"

Shrugging and grinning disarmingly at Grantaire, Jehan handed him the leash. “No one else can have animals in their apartments, whereas I know for a fact you can. I’ve got some food and stuff in my car. I just know you two are going to have a wonderful time."

And like that, he was gone, and Grantaire was alone with the dog, who just kept panting up at him. “Um, hi," said Grantaire cautiously. 

The dog barked excitedly, and promptly peed on Grantaire’s floor.

* * *

 

Grantaire didn’t name it. To name it was to become attached, and Grantaire didn’t want to become attached.

So he called it ‘Dog’ and tried his best to ignore it. Of course, it was hard to ignore it when it would curl up next to him on the couch, putting its head in his lap and looking up at him with those pitiful eyes.

Or when it would wake him by jumping enthusiastically on top of him in the mornings and making him take it for a walk.

Three days in, he finally ascertained that ‘Dog’ was in fact male, and grudgingly started referring to him as such, instead of ‘it’.

Five days in, just as they were starting to get comfortable, Grantaire went to Les Amis’ meeting, and returned a wreck, bottle clenched in one hand, barely able to stand.

‘Dog’ greeted him at the door, happy and enthusiastic. When Grantaire brushed past him without saying anything, ‘Dog’ whined. “Shut up," Grantaire snapped, plopping down heavily on the couch.

Instead, ‘Dog’ joined him, trying to snuggle up next to him. “Stop," shouted Grantaire, trying to push ‘Dog’ away. “Go away! Why won’t you leave me alone? I don’t want you here!"

This only made ‘Dog’ try harder to clamber into Grantaire’s lap, whining and trying to lick the tears off Grantaire’s face. “Why?" Grantaire whispered, his hand going automatically to Dog’s head. “Why me?"

Dog just laid his head in Grantaire’s lap and let Grantaire cry brokenly into his ruff. Dog held himself as still as possible, not moving once no matter how much Grantaire cried.

Finally, Grantaire raised his head, and Dog tentatively licked the last remaining tears from his face. Grantaire managed a weak smile. “You’re an idiot," he told Dog without any bite in his voice. “C’mon, let’s go to bed."

* * *

 

"I had heard you got a dog," said Combeferre in lieu of greeting, sitting across from Grantaire at the café a week or so later. “Have you named it yet?"

Grantaire looked up from his coffee. “No, I can’t find a name that fits," he said. “Jehan told you about it?"

Combeferre nodded. “Yeah, better you than me," he chuckled. “I just got a new cat, and I have a feeling they would not get along."

"Wait, you got a cat?" Grantaire asked Combeferre, brow furrowed.

Combeferre looked startled. “Yes. I mean, I already had one, but I wanted a second—"

"Does anyone else have pets?" Grantaire demanded.

Frowning, Combeferre said slowly, “Well, Joly has his fish, of course, and Bossuet has a turtle. Bahorel wanted a dog, which was why I thought Jehan would give the dog to him, but when he gave him to you, Bahorel got a kitten…"

Grantaire stood quickly. “Thanks, Ferre. I, uh, I gotta go."

He strode away, hoping he would find Jehan in the usual spot in the garden. He did, finding the poet sitting cross legged on the garden wall, writing on his hand.

"You said no one else could have pets,"  Grantaire stated accusingly.

Jehan didn’t even startle, just shrugging one shoulder. “I lied."

"Why? Why lie? Why did you give me the dog?" Grantaire demanded.

Without looking up from where he was dedicatedly writing Shakespeare’s 116th sonnet in blue ballpoint on his left hand, Jehan gave another half-shrug. “He reminded me of you."

Grantaire frowned. “How so?"

Jehan lifted his hand to admire his handiwork. “He looked like he needed someone to love him," he said simply. “For someone to love him completely, absolutely, unconditionally. For someone to listen to him, and to talk to him, and to just sit with him.

"You look that way, too, sometimes," Jehan continued, setting his hand back down and fixing one of the letters. “And we all try to be there for you, but we can’t be there all the time. So I figured, you know, when we’re not…"

Understanding dawned over Grantaire’s face and he nodded, stiffly, something close to tears prickling in his eyes. “Thank you," he said roughly, then stood and left.

When he got home, he found the dog waiting for him patiently at the door. Grantaire knelt down so that he was eye-to-eye with the dog. “Thank you," he told the dog, as seriously as he had said it to Jehan earlier. “For everything. I don’t know if you can understand me, but I want to name you after someone who loves just as big and just as warmly and without question as you do." The dog looked back at him with liquid eyes and licked him square on the nose.

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Grantaire was walking the dog  in the park not far from the Musain, when he saw Enjolras. Kneeling down, he whispered, “Go on, Pru, go show Enjy some love!"

With that, Pru tore off to practically tackle Enjolras, who scowled and tried to push Pru down. “Call off your devil mutt, would you?" he snapped at Grantaire, who just laughed.

"Down, Pru," he commanded, and Pru instantly dropped and returned to Grantaire’s side, though his tail still wagged furiously.

"Pru?" repeated Enjolras, looking pointedly at the dog. “You named THAT beast ‘Prudence’?"

Grantaire laughed again. “Of course not," he said, dropping a hand to lovingly pet the top of Pru’s head. “I named him Prouvaire."


	24. Prompt 20 - Jealous Courfeyrac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First prompt of my July prompt-a-thon.
> 
> I said I was going to clean this up before posting it on here. I lied.
> 
> I will say that I wrote this in ~15 minutes, so there is that haha.
> 
> I also interpreted jealous Courf as pining!Courf who is also asshole!Courf.

Courfeyrac was in love with Jehan.

And the poet wanted nothing to do with him.

Or so he complained to Combeferre, who patted his hand sympathetically, even though he was only half-listening, paying more attention to the book propped in front of him than to Courfeyrac’s whining complaints. “He hates me, Ferre," Courfeyrac complained.

"He doesn’t hate you," said Combeferre calmly. 

Pouting, Courfeyrac said, “Well, he doesn’t want to date me."

Without looking up, Combeferre raised a dubious eyebrow. “And the only two extremes that exist are either someone wanting to date you or someone hating you? Because I hate to break it to you, Courf, but in that case, I apparently hate you."

Courfeyrac ran a frustrated hand through his curls. “It’s not like that," he sighed. “It’s just…I’ve tried everything. I’ve bought him flowers. I wrote him a poem. And he still doesn’t want me."

"Maybe he just doesn’t, you know,  _like_  like you?" suggested Combeferre delicately, but Courfeyrac wasn’t interested, staring intently at the form of Jehan who had just walked into the coffeeshop. Combeferre followed his line of sight and sighed, closing his book and setting it down on the table. “Look, Courf, if Jehan doesn’t want to date you, that’s his problem, alright? But you’re not going to change his mind by doing something drastic."

"Uh-huh, yeah, thanks for the advice, Ferre," said Courfeyrac, standing and heading towards Jehan without listening (behind him, Combeferre just sighed and picked his book back up again).

Halfway to Jehan, Courfeyrac slowed to a stop, eyes widening as someone joined Jehan, slipping a hand into his. It was someone Courfeyrac had never seen before, and his eyes narrowed, feeling something very close to rage rise in his chest. He wanted to punch this guy in the face for  _touching_  Jehan, hell, for even  _thinking_  about touching Jehan.

Then Jehan pressed a kiss to the corner of the guy’s mouth, and Courfeyrac felt his stomach fall away completely. How? How could this be happening? After all Courfeyrac had done, all the signs he had showed, and Jehan had found someone else?

So he cleared his throat loudly. “Jehan!" he called, falsely cheerful, pulling Jehan into a hug when he reached him. “Fancy seeing you here!"

"Courf," said Jehan warily, disentangling himself from Courfeyrac’s embrace. “Um, I’m actually here with someone—"

"Greg," started the guy, still holding Jehan’s hand.

Giving him a once over, Courfeyrac curled his lip into what could only approximate a smile before turning his back on Greg and butting in between them. “Uh-huh, that’s nice. Anyway, I’m just over there, hanging out with Combeferre, you know, the usual. What our friends normally do."

"Right," said Jehan, scowling. “Well, we’ll leave you to that. C’mon Greg, let’s go somewhere else, ok?"

Greg nodded, looking bewildered. “Uh, yeah, we can go back to mine if you want. I don’t live too far away."

"Sounds perfect," said Jehan, turning to follow Greg out the door.

"Jehan, wait!" said Courfeyrac, reaching out to grab Jehan’s arm. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be an asshole, or to crash your date. I just…you have to know how I feel about you."

Jehan looked at him, unsmiling. “I do know how you feel, yes."

"Then how can you do this? I mean, how well do you even know that guy?"

Jehan looked pointedly at Courfeyrac’s hand still gripping his arm, and Courfeyrac instantly released him, flushing. “I’m not yours or anyone else’s," said Jehan softly, though his eyes flashed dangerously. “I will make my own choices, and there is nothing you can do to stop me."

Courfeyrac nodded, though his eyes were worried. “I just…I don’t want you to get hurt."

Smiling, though it was a wrong smile, a bit too wide and not meeting his eyes, Jehan told him, “The only thing that would hurt me is a cage."


	25. Prompt 21 - E/R Smut (with some Possessive!Enjolras)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rated for explicit-ish sexual content**.
> 
> Continuation of my [Possessive!Enjolras drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841398/chapters/1634774) from earlier.

In the alley behind the club, having just “rescued” Grantaire from some creep, Enjolras grinned and pulled Grantaire close, kissing him until they were both breathless. Grantaire looked up at Enjolras, mock-demure. “Had I known you were going to come so gallantly to my rescue, I would have let random strangers hit on me a long time ago.”

“Very funny,” huffed Enjolras, rolling his eyes, but Grantaire wasn’t done.

“No, I mean it, if I had known you would’ve made out with me in a dark alley and then ask me to be your boyfriend, I would’ve hired some skeeve to hit on me. Maybe I should do that anyway, see what your reaction would be if it happens again…”

Enjolras kissed him to shut him up. “Taire…” sighed Enjolras warningly into Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire just grinned.

They kissed again, slow and sweet, and Grantaire whispered against Enjolras’s lips, “Part of me still can’t believe this is real.”

Pulling away slightly, Enjolras frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I just feel like at any moment you’ll decide you don’t want me,” said Grantaire softly, looking away from Enjolras.

Enjolras reached out to gently tilt Grantaire’s chin up so that their eyes met. “Never,” he said fiercely. “I would never give you up. Not in a million years. You are mine.”

Grantaire shook his head wordlessly and Enjolras sighed. “Must I prove it to you?” he asked, mostly to himself. He pulled Grantaire close, kissing him gently on the lips before kissing down his jaw and neck.

"Mine," he whispered, teeth scraping against Grantaire’s collarbone.

"Mine," he repeated, dragging his tongue up Grantaire’s neck.

"Mine," he stated, firmly, his tone and his grip and his fierce blue eyes laying claim on every part of Grantaire.

Grantaire shivered, and replied, in a voice husky with lust, “Yours." Then he reached out, almost tentatively, and laid his palm against Enjolras’s chest, directly over his heart. “Mine."

It wasn’t a question, but somehow still seemed to be one, with Grantaire always questioning, always unsure. As a way of answer, Enjolras pressed Grantaire back against the wall and kissed him, long and hard. “Yours," he whispered in Grantaire’s ear, his breath ragged. “It’s all yours, Grantaire. For as long as you want it."

Grantaire curled his fingers into Enjolras’s hair, drawing him in for another long kiss. “Forever," he whispered back.

The air seemed to shift between them, their kiss turning almost desperate, tongues and teeth clashing and biting, hands roaming freely across the other’s body. Enjolras dropped his mouth to bite none-too-gently at Grantaire’s pulse point while Grantaire rucked Enjolras’s shirt up to skim his hands across Enjolras’s sides and chest.

Without warning, Enjolras dropped to his knees, his hands firmly pressing Grantaire’s hips against the wall. He mouthed Grantaire’s growing erection through his jeans and smiled wickedly up at him. “Mine," he said, once more, unnecessarily.

Then he had unzipped Grantaire’s jeans and pulled them and his boxers halfway down his thighs. Grantaire’s fingers scrabbled uselessly against the brick wall as Enjolras bit down on his hip bone before kissing down even further. Without moving his hands from Grantaire’s hips, he licked the very tip of Grantaire’s cock, lapping up the bead of precum that glistened there.

He swallowed Grantaire down, taking easily half of Grantaire’s cock into his mouth in one go. He bobbed his head slowly, painfully slow, as Grantaire’s hands fisted in Enjolras’s hair. Pulling almost all the way back, he swirled his tongue around the head of Grantaire’s cock, grinning as Grantaire swore loudly, his grip on Enjolras’s hair tightening.

Enjolras’s own grip on Grantaire’s hips was relentless, and he could feel Grantaire try and push back, to buck his hips as Enjolras slowly took more of him in his mouth. But Grantaire was completely under Enjolras’s control, and he reveled in the feeling, going purposely slow just to watch Grantaire fall apart against him.

It didn’t take long for Enjolras’s lips and tongue to have Grantaire writhing against him as best he could, letting out a stream of near incomprehensible swearing and begging. Knowing it would be mere moments now, Enjolras pulled away and said triumphantly, “Mine!” Then he took as much of Grantaire’s cock into his mouth and throat as he could, dragging his tongue along the bottom.

Sure enough, Grantaire let out a strangled yelp of “Enj!” before coming in Enjolras’s mouth. Enjolras swallowed and rocked back on his heels, still grinning. He helped Grantaire pull up his boxers and jeans and then stood, keeping his hands on Grantaire’s hips. He kissed Grantaire, gentle and sweet, and Grantaire kissed him back. “So,” said Enjolras, as if to start a conversation, but he couldn’t stop grinning in savage triumph and Grantaire looked too wrecked to even put words together in a complete sentence.

Of course, he underestimated Grantaire’s ability to say inane things even at times like this. “You sounded like one of those fucking seagulls from  _Finding Nemo_ ," Grantaire finally managed after he had caught his breath.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that so?" he asked mildly. The next thing Grantaire knew, Enjolras was peppering his face and lips with kisses, whispering “Mine" after each.

"Stop it," laughed Grantaire, jokingly throwing his hands up in front of his face.

Enjolras kissed him on the lips, languid and heady, one hand cupping the base of Grantaire’s skull as the other wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. “You are mine, though," he told him. “For as long as you want to be."

Grantaire grinned. “I already told you - forever. You’re not getting rid of me that easily."

Kissing Grantaire once more, Enjolras smacked him playfully on the ass. “Good. Then we need to get your ass home so I can claim you properly."

"Why, Monsieur Enjolras, is that a threat?" asked Grantaire, batting his eyelashes with faux-innocence.

Enjolras grabbed him and kissed him hard, biting down on Grantaire’s lip. “No," he stated, eyes gleaming. “It’s a guarantee."


	26. Prompt 22 - Enjolras & Combeferre as best friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally caught up with the drabbles I've posted on Tumblr (hence updating this thrice in one day; sorry y'all).
> 
> This turned into quite a bit of Combeferre & Grantaire friendship, as well as bits of E/R and a tiny bit of Combeferre/Éponine.

To say Enjolras and Combeferre were friends would be to demean their relationship to something base and simple. It was anything but.

It was closer to say they were brothers, far more accurate to say they were platonic soulmates. They went to each other for everything: Combeferre was the first person Enjolras came out to, and when Combeferre ran away from home in high school, it was to Enjolras that he ran.

Even as adults, it was as if they shared one mind on everything. They lived together, worked together, and spent precious few moments outside the other’s company.

Which was not to say that they agreed on everything – far from it. Their disagreements tended to simmer and spark, and very rarely ended in compromise, more one person (not always, but quite often Enjolras) agreeing to the other’s point in its entirety. For the work of Les Amis, this was often advantageous, as Combeferre’s counters to Enjolras’s arguments strengthened the core of the argument and often led to a far better speech than Enjolras’s original. In more domestic matters, this was more of a touchy issue occasionally.

Still, theirs was the kind of relationship where Enjolras could stumble into the kitchen at 5 in the morning to find Combeferre had kindly set the automatic timer on the coffeepot and even helpfully left the sugar and a clean mug on the counter. And when Combeferre would wander into the living room, confused look on his face, Enjolras could tell him without looking up from his book that the paper Combeferre was looking for was tucked in between the pages of his Kafka book, which was hidden underneath the book on moths he had borrowed from Jehan.

They were in sync; they were inseparable.

Which meant they also dealt with a lot of people who didn’t understand the meaning of the term “platonic”. The number of times they had told people – both inside and outside their group of friends – that they weren’t dating was astounding. Even Combeferre’s mother asked him, awkwardly, one Christmas – “Because Hallmark now makes the cutest cards for ‘son and his special partner’, and I just need to know if I should be getting that for you and Enjolras.”

The truth was perhaps more difficult for those who had never experienced it to understand. And was more difficult for some in particular to understand than for others.

Like Grantaire.

It didn’t help that due to their years of friendship, Enjolras and Combeferre had literally no physical boundaries around each other. Which was why, one exceptionally late night following the meeting, as Combeferre and Enjolras stayed up working on a permit application for their next protest, Enjolras simply yawned and curled up on the bench next to Combeferre, resting his head in Combeferre’s lap.

This was not an unusual position, taken up by either man especially during finals, when a power nap was necessary to work their way through studying. But during those times they were normally alone, and Combeferre had not forgotten about the solitary figure who had frozen, bottle halfway to his lips.

He saw Grantaire watching, the way Grantaire always watched, watched without trying to seem like he was even looking, like he even cared, and if questioned, he would claim he didn’t. He cared about nothing – so he would claim – save the bottle in his hand.

But Combeferre knew better, always had, infinitely more observant of the human, the emotional, than Enjolras (or perhaps just more willing to admit to himself the blatant evidence he saw before him, evidence he suspected Enjolras denied even of himself –  _distractions_ , he would have called them, with a snort of derision that didn’t quite meet his eyes).

So Combeferre smoothed a lock of Enjolras’s hair off of his face, and met Grantaire’s gaze squarely. “It’s not like that,” he said quietly.

Grantaire startled, flushing a brilliant color of fuchsia before turning his sudden movement into a fake cough. “Um, sorry, what?”

“Enjolras and I,” Combeferre elaborated, nothing in his tone changing. “It’s not…we’re not…together. Or anything like that. We never have been.”

There was a long pause, and emotions flashed across Grantaire’s face faster than Combeferre could keep track of, before settling on wariness. “Why are you telling me that? I don’t care what you two do in your spare time.”

Combeferre sighed, carefully sitting up straighter so as not to disturb Enjolras. “Don’t lie to me, Grantaire. You can lie to Enjolras, to all our friends, and even to yourself if it makes you feel better, but don’t lie to me. Not when I know better.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then continued. “Enjolras is many things, among which is my best friend. But he needs more than me. He needs something that I can never give him. He needs you.”

The pause this time was even longer, until finally Grantaire said, in a voice so quiet Combeferre almost didn’t hear him, “He doesn’t need me.”

“You’re wrong. He needs you more than he could or would ever say, but I’ve seen it. You ground him, you remind him that the ideals he’s fighting for aren’t just ideals, but for the people that they affect. You infuriate him and you frustrate him because you’re complicated and you’re human. But that’s a good thing. You make him stronger, you make him smarter, you make him  _better_.”

Combeferre stopped for a moment, ducking his head and blushing slightly. “I don’t…I mean, I can’t pretend to understand fully what there is between you two, but without a doubt there is something there, and it’s strong. And not that either of you need my help or advice, but in my opinion, that’s something worth pursuing.”

Grantaire smiled faintly, though his eyes were on Enjolras. “He’s always listened to your advice; I don’t see why I wouldn’t.” He bit his lip, a slight flush rising in his cheeks. “Can you…I mean…are you sure…”

He trailed off, but Combeferre understood the question. “I know Enjolras better than anyone, and I can’t promise to understand everything he feels. But were I a betting man, I would bet on this. I promise you that.”

Smiling slightly, Grantaire nodded, though the lines in his forehead still indicated his doubt. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

With that, he heaved himself off the floor and slumped toward the exit. Combeferre couldn’t help but notice that he had left the bottle behind and smiled a little to himself before shaking Enjolras gently. “Time to go home,” he told him.

Enjolras blinked blearily. “Mmdfkgj,” he muttered – or something of that ilk.

Combeferre just smiled and wrapped an arm around Enjolras’s waist, hoisting him upright. “C’mon, I can’t carry you by myself; you’re a lot heavier than you look.”

Enjolras was awake enough by this time to throw Combeferre a dirty look, which turned into a look of confusion. “I thought…” he started, then trailed off. “Never mind.”

But Combeferre watched Enjolras as he looked directly at Grantaire’s left behind bottle, an odd expression on his face. And Combeferre couldn’t help but smile a little to himself at that.

Because he knew Enjolras, knew him better than anyone. And he was beginning to feel like, platonic soulmates though they were, maybe, just maybe, Enjolras was beginning to realize there was enough room for another person in his life.

Combeferre would be there for that. Combeferre would be there for all the indecision and the working up the nerve to actually tell Grantaire how he felt. Combeferre would be there to hold Enjolras as he cried after a fight or, heaven forbid, a breakup. And when the time came, Combeferre would be there by letting Enjolras go his own way, to move in with Grantaire. Combeferre would be there, calm and strong, standing proudly beside Enjolras at his wedding as his best man.

Distance, separation and time mattered not. He would be there in every way he possibly could, because that’s just what platonic soulmates did.

In the meantime, however, he would take Enjolras home, put him to bed, and in the morning suggest that Enjolras ask Grantaire to go with him to the new exhibit on the French Revolution in the museum (even if Grantaire had never previously expressed interest in the French Revolution). Because that’s also what platonic soulmates did.

_And if in a few week’s time Enjolras told Combeferre to invite Éponine to go with him to the concert he was trying to drag Enjolras to, well…platonic soulmates worked both ways._


	27. Prompt 23 - Enjolras drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is without doubt the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever written in my life. Modern AU, set in the US, on the Fourth of July.
> 
> I'm not even sorry.

There were a lot of days when it seemed like Enjolras hated America.

He had more than enough reasons to – blatant homophobia, racism, classism, ableism, etcetera, rampant throughout the country; ineffective and corrupt lawmakers who directly countered their constituents’ wishes; a president elected not by popular vote but by an archaic system meant to keep power out of the people’s hands; and the sheer arrogance of being called “America”, as if North, South and Central America were just subsidiaries of the ‘greatness’ that was “The United States of”, just to name a few.

And his actions in subversion and protest of the government’s actions (as well as big business’s actions, and a variety of other institutions) had not only landed him a place on more than one terrorist watch list (the FBI had him on the no-fly list until Combeferre made a few calls and smoothed the whole thing over) but had also saddled him with a reputation of hating America.

This was perhaps an unfair reputation. There were a great deal of things he loved about America, not the least of which that despite being placed on more than one terrorist watch list, he was still free to protest the government and the government’s actions (he just had to be a little more careful about not breaking any laws while doing so). But Enjolras was unwilling to compromise his beliefs just to prove to people that he didn’t actually hate America.

Except for one day a year – the Fourth of July.

It had started three years previous, when they were all still in school. Courf had made a drink that he called ‘hot apple pie’, and Enjolras had accidentally mistaken it for apple cider.

Three cups later, they found him lying on his back outside, staring at the sky and reciting the “Pledge of Allegiance.”

The next morning, he had made Courfeyrac and Combeferre promise to never mention this again. Combeferre readily agreed, as did Courefyrac, but with one caveat – he did it again next Fourth of July.

So Enjolras, paragon of sobriety and openly despising America, spent the Fourth of July drunk and professing his love for his country.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre took turns looking after him, but this year was different. This year, Grantaire and Enjolras were dating, and as it was Courfeyrac’s turn to watch Enjolras, he was more than willing to hand the responsibility over to Grantaire, who looked far more put out at the thought of having to be the more sober of the two than anything else.

“He can’t be that bad…” said Grantaire, half-hopeful, since he own memories from last Fourth of July (as well as the two previous) were foggy to say the least.

Combeferre just fixed him with pitying eyes. “Last year he literally stopped traffic by bolting into the street and doing what I think was an interpretive dance to ‘America the Beautiful’, so…”

With a sad sigh (and a longing look at the copious amount of booze on the picnic table), Grantaire drained the beer he had already started and settled in to watch the festivities unfurl.

True to form, by the time the sun set, Enjolras was drunk. Truly and completely wasted. He was sitting cross-legged on the grass, watching open-mouthed as Gavroche played with a sparkler. Grantaire sat down next to him, and Enjolras turned to beam at him. “America,” said Enjolras confidently.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “America?” he repeated, hoping this would spark a continuation of the thought.

It didn’t. Enjolras just beamed and said “America” again before launching into an attempt at the National Anthem. Grantaire groaned and got up, reaching down to heave Enjolras to his feet. “Alright, we’re at the point in the night where you’re gonna start embarrassing yourself,” he told Enjolras. “Time to go home.”

“Don’t wanna,” said Enjolras, grinning wildly as he swayed on his feet.

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire leaned in and half-whispered, “Let’s do it for America, huh?”

This caused a noticeable change in Enjolras. He stood up straighter and nodded. “For America,” he said solemnly.

Grantaire waved goodbye to their friends and laced his fingers firmly with Enjolras’s so that he could pull him firmly in the direction of their apartment, hoping that Enjolras wouldn’t cause a scene on the walk back.

He hoped in vain.

“CUZ I’M PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN, WHERE AT LEAST I KNOW I’M FREEEE,” shouted Enjolras in what could only be described as an approximation of singing. He grabbed Grantaire, eyes bright and as wide as the grin on his face. “It’s true, Taire. We’re free. This country, man…this fucking country.”

It took everything in Grantaire’s power to not throw Enjolras’s arguments from only a few nights previous back in his face, where Enjolras had argued that even as a gay man he did not experience oppression the way people of color did, the way the trans* community did, etc. Of course he was free – he was a cis white guy. But Grantaire, for perhaps the first time in his life, managed to hold his tongue.

And Enjolras elaborated. “I mean there are problems, Taire. So many problems. Our country is fucked up as shit, man, you know?” Grantaire filed that phrase away for later use. “But we’re still free, so much freer…more free…freer than other place. And sometimes I forget that.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll forget all about it again tomorrow,” said Grantaire, more to himself than to Enjolras, who was not listening.

“And yeah sometimes things don’t always work out the way we want – I mean look at the voting rights thingy and all that—” Grantaire almost choked when Enjolras said ‘voting rights thingy’ “—but things are changing in this country and we’re doing it, Taire, we really are.”

Grabbing Grantaire’s hands in both of his, Enjolras turned to face him. “We can get married. And the federal government has to recognize it. We have to get married, Taire. To shove it in the face of everybody because this is AMERICA and we can get fucking MARRIED.”

“Is this your completely fucked up way of proposing to me?” asked Grantaire with a raised eyebrow.

Enjolras looked at him seriously. “It is the 4th of July Taire. It is our patriotic duty to get married. For our country.” He bellowed at the top of his lungs, “WE HAVE TO GET MARRIED FOR AMERICA.”

Grantaire clamped a hand over his mouth. “Would you kindly shut up?” he hissed. “The only thing you’re going to do is get a drunken disorderly charge for our country if you keep this up.” Enjolras responded by licking the palm of Grantaire’s hand, and Grantaire released him with a scowl. “Gross!”

Without saying a word, Enjolras pulled Grantaire close to him and started to dance with him, leading him in clumsy steps as he hummed something off-key in Grantaire’s ear. Grantaire blushed but followed Enjolras’s moves, acutely aware of the fact that they were slow dancing in the middle of the street and that this was not only completely ridiculous but was, well, completely fucking ridiculous.

Then Enjolras began to sing, still off-key. “So I put my hands up, they’re playing my song, the butterflies fly away—”

“Oh hell no,” snapped Grantaire, pulling away from Enjolras, who merely shrugged and danced by himself, singing even louder.

“Nodding my head like YEAH, moving my hips like YEAH!” Enjolras gave what he clearly thought was a seductive hip wriggle at that, but only succeeded in completely failing at doing so. “I don’t remember the rest of the words but it’s A PARTY IN THE USA!”

Grantaire shook his head and looked to the sky as if for support. “Enjolras, that’s not even a patriotic song,” he said, as patiently as he could manage to be.

Enjolras looked scandalized. “There is  _nothing_  more patriotic than Miley Cyrus.”

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’s hand and tugged him down the sidewalk. “C’mon, let’s get you home and then we can discuss the relative patriotism of Miley Cyrus, alright?”

They managed to get home without further incident, and Grantaire plopped Enjolras down on the couch and turned on the TV so Enjolras could watch the PBS Fourth of July show while he went to get Enjolras some water. When he returned, he sat down on the couch next to Enjolras, who instantly cuddled up next to him, laying his head on Grantaire’s shoulder as Grantaire snaked an arm around his waist.

They stayed that way, sitting in silence for a few minutes, content in each other as they waited for the fireworks to start. “Taire?” Enjolras whispered without taking his head from Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Yeah?” replied Grantaire, watching the fireworks on TV as he carded his fingers through Enjolras’s curls.

Enjolras paused as if hesitating, then said, “I do still want us to get married.”

Grantaire half-smiled. “Yeah, you said that. For America.”

“No, I mean…” Enjolras trailed off, struggling to put words together, though whether from inebriation or something else, it was hard to tell. “I want us to get married for us. Because I love you.”

Though Grantaire froze for a brief moment, he quickly resumed petting Enjolras’s hair as if nothing had changed. “How about we talk about it in the morning, hmm? When you’re a bit more sober.”

Enjolras nodded agreeably, closing his eyes and yawning. “Ok. Night-night.”

As Grantaire felt Enjolras drift off to sleep, he could swear he heard Enjolras humming “America, fuck yeah” to himself and couldn’t help but grinning and wishing that the Fourth of July happened more than once a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an actual "hot apple pie" alcoholic drink. The way I make it is with Everclear (190 proof AKA 95% alcohol), and it not only actually tastes like apple pie, but will also knock you on your ass after only a few _shots_ , let alone three cups like what Enjolras had.


	28. Prompt 24 - Courf/Jehan Valentine's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a slight bastardization of Shakespeare's 18th Sonnet.

Their first year of dating, Courfeyrac asked Grantaire what Jehan would want to do for Valentine’s Day (since Grantaire was, in his own way, a reliable source of information about most of Les Amis, but Jehan in particular). Grantaire just gave Courfeyrac an odd look. “Jehan doesn’t celebrate Valentine’s Day,” he informed him.

This left Courfeyrac more than a little confused. How could Jehan, the seeming embodiment of romance and love, not celebrate the holiday so closely related to that? “Is it some anti-commercialism thing?” he asked Grantaire.

Grantaire shrugged. “I mean, I’ve been on the receiving end of his ‘true love isn’t about possessions, it’s about feelings that you share with another person, so buying someone something as a representation of that love is highly unnecessary and you’d be better off just telling them how you felt’ rants to know that that’s probably part of it. But there’s some bigger issues he has with it as well.”

Courfeyrac nodded slowly, then looked at Grantaire oddly. “Wait, why would you have been on the receiving end of one of those rants?”

Grantaire looked down, his ears turning red. “No reason,” he muttered, and quickly changed the subject. “But seriously, think about it, man. The things that Jehan loves most in the world are things that you can’t really find on Valentine’s Day, you know?”

Brow furrowed, Courfeyrac said slowly, “Like…what?”

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire said waspishly, “He’s your boyfriend, not mine. You figure it out.”

Of course, instead of doing so, Courfeyrac went to ask Combeferre, who merely peered over the book he was reading and said simply, “Summer.”

“Summer is the thing that Jehan loves most in the world and can’t find on Valentine’s Day?” repeated Courfeyrac dubiously. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Combeferre sighed. “Yes it does. Think about it – Jehan is happiest when he’s outdoors, surrounded by flowers, on a warm sunny day. You know as well as I that as much as Jehan likes to explore the dark, he loves the light most of all. And I can only imagine that he associates that feeling with love, which makes it very hard to celebrate love on a day that is typically cold and gray.”

This explanation made a lot of sense, and Courfeyrac reluctantly told Combeferre as such. But this also left him with a bit of a quandary – what in the world was he supposed to do about it? He couldn’t just let Valentine’s Day pass by without some kind of recognition, but he wanted it to be special for Jehan…

An idea came to him in a flash, and the only person he could think of to help him pull it off was Enjolras.

Of course, Enjolras was not one to help with something just because it was romantic, so Courfeyrac debated over how to broach the subject as he headed over to Enjolras’s flat. He ran into the man in question on the way and called out, “Enjolras!”

Enjolras stopped and turned around, momentarily confused. “Ah, Courfeyrac,” he said, sounding almost distracted. “I was expecting…well, what can I do for you?”

“Is that a new jacket?” Courfeyrac asked, raising an eyebrow at the bright red wool peacoat Enjolras was sporting, which Courfeyrac had not seen him wear before.

Enjolras looked down at it as if he didn’t remember what he was wearing. “Oh. Yeah. Grantaire gave it to me. Said it was a gift and he couldn’t return it, but it was too big on him or something?”

Grantaire’s presence on the receiving end of Jehan’s rants suddenly made sense, and Courfeyrac had to hide a smile. “Ah.” He cleared his throat. “So you know how you’re not on speaking terms with your family? How not on speaking terms would you consider yourself?”

Frowning, Enjolras looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“I had an idea for Jehan’s Valentine’s Day gift, but it may involve breaking and entering on your parents’ property. Unless, of course, you can secure permission.” Courfeyrac said this all in a rush, already nervous over Enjolras’s reply.

Enjolras frowned even deeper, but after a moment, nodded. “Depending on the precise need, I can ask one of the estate’s staff. My parents are out of the country for most of the month on vacation, and thankfully I am still on speaking terms with most of the staff members.”

Grinning broadly, Courfeyrac quickly laid out his plan, and Enjolras agreed to ask one of the groundskeepers.

Which was how, on Valentine’s Day, Courfeyrac drove Jehan out to the country where the Enjolras Manor was located. Jehan was quiet for most of the trip out, holding one of Courfeyrac’s hands the entire time. He had smiled when Courfeyrac had presented him with a bouquet of flowers, but the smile hadn’t quite reached his eyes. Courfeyrac tried to still his hammering heart, hoping and praying that Jehan would like the surprise.

When they arrived, Jehan looked around suspiciously. “Isn’t this Enjolras’s—” he started, but Courfeyrac cut him off by kissing him.

While kissing him, Courfeyrac managed to get a blindfold mostly around Jehan’s eyes, and when the poet noticed – and protested – Courfeyrac merely kissed him and whispered, “It’s a surprise.”

Though Jehan’s lips pursed into a frown, he let Courfeyrac adjust the blindfold with no further complaint. Then Courfeyrac took both of Jehan’s hands in his and slowly led the man through the grounds, only letting go of one hand once to wave to one of the groundskeepers, who waved back cheerfully.

They arrived at their destination, and Courfeyrac opened the door, telling Jehan in voice rough with nerves, “Take off the blindfold.”

Jehan did, and Courfeyrac watched as his eyes took in the sight before him, a wide smile breaking out on his face.

For a few years back, Enjolras’s mother had Enjolras’s father install several greenhouses on the edge of the estate’s property. And Courf and Jehan stood in one now, with the temperature a cheerful 75 degrees Fahrenheit (24 degrees Celsius), surrounded by luscious blooming flowers, the kind typically only found in summer.

Jehan turned to Courfeyrac, still grinning. “How—?” he started, but Courfeyrac just smiled and took his hand, pulling him deeper into the greenhouse, where he had laid out a picnic blanket and picnic basket for the two of them.

“It wasn’t all my idea,” he told Jehan, still nervous, though he was smiling at Jehan’s reaction. “Grantaire and Combeferre helped, and Enjolras of course let us use the place, but…Do you like it?”

Leaning forward, Jehan whispered, “I love it,” before kissing Courfeyrac on the lips. It was not a gentle kiss, but one filled with passion, and both men sank to the ground without breaking it, hands fisting in each other’s hair as their lips and tongues met.

When they broke apart, Courfeyrac was smiling like an idiot. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, opening the picnic basket and starting to take out the food he had brought. “I know you prefer summer and light and warmth to winter, and I wanted to try and bring you just a little piece of that so that you could enjoy Valentine’s Day.”

“I love the summer,” said Jehan seriously. “But do you know what I love more than summer?”

Courfeyrac cocked his head slightly. “No, what?”

Jehan grinned. “You. Summer’s lease hath all too short a date,” he said, leaning in to kiss Courfeyrac again. “But thy eternal summer shall not fade.”

Courfeyrac kissed him back and when they broke apart again, he said softly, “I love you, too. Happy Valentine’s Day, Jehan.”


	29. Prompt 26 - Grantaire Painting with his kid (E/R)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, I published [prompt 25](http://archiveofourown.org/works/873676) separately because I felt like it :D And because it's over 3000 words long.

The sun filtering through the window caught the dust motes in the air, spinning sparkles in the air that were only matched in shine by the crown of golden hair on the small boy sitting at the kitchen table. He had a crayon in his hand and a blissful smile on his face as he scribbled on the piece of paper in front of him.

His smile was echoed on Grantaire face as he looked fondly at the boy, charcoal pencil held loosely between his stained fingers. The drawing in front of him was mostly done, a touch more shading needed in some places perhaps, but Grantaire was more than happy to sit and watch Max work.

Max was 4 years old and was the light of Enjolras and Grantaire’s life. With his golden curls and piercing blue eyes, he looked so much like Enjolras that it almost hurt, even if he was far more like Grantaire in characteristics. For instance, Max was diligently working on a drawing of the muse that he and Grantaire shared: Enjolras.

Max was just putting the finishing touches on the red blazer he had drawn on the picture of Enjolras when both he and Grantaire heard the door open and Enjolras call, “I’m home!”

“Daddy!” Max shouted, his face lighting up with excitement as Enjolras poked his head into the kitchen, his own smile already stretching across his face.

“Hey Max,” he said, bending down to scoop up his son, giving him a gentle hug before setting him back down on the ground. “Did you draw something for me?”

Max grinned even brighter, running back over to the table to snatch up his drawing. “I drew you!” he said excitedly.

Bending over to examine the drawing, Enjolras said truthfully, “That’s a wonderful drawing, Max.” This statement was completely truthful for two reasons: 1) Enjolras did not have an artistic bone in his body, and he truthfully could not tell the difference between Monet, Picasso, or his son’s drawings; and 2) one can say what one will about genetics, but Max had somehow inherited all of Grantaire’s drawing skills. Of course, this was probably because Grantaire had put art supplies in Max’s hand from the time he was old enough to grasp things, but still.

Max beamed and Enjolras’s compliment and turned to look at Grantaire. “Show Daddy what you drew!” Max demanded and Grantaire smiled a bit wryly before holding the piece of paper out to Enjolras.

Enjolras’s breath caught in his throat as he looked down at the drawing. Grantaire had drawn their son in black and white, his smile and mannerisms and rapt attention while drawing captured perfectly. “It’s beautiful,” Enjolras breathed.

Max tugged at Enjolras’s arm. “Lemme see.”

“What do we say when we want something?” asked Enjolras automatically, his eyes still drinking in the picture.

Pouting ever so slightly, Max wheedled, “Lemme see,  _puh-lease_?” Enjolras showed the picture to Max who frowned and turned to look accusingly at Grantaire. “We were s’posed to draw Daddy.”

Grantaire grinned crookedly and pulled Max over to him to press a kiss to the top of his head. “I know, buddy, but I wanted to draw you.”

“Dad’s drawn a lot of pictures of me,” added Enjolras, and he and Grantaire shared a secret smile at that fact. “He just needs practice drawing you. Now go put your picture up on the fridge, alright? And then wash your hands for dinner.”

Max raced away and Grantaire stood, taking the picture from Enjolras and setting it on the kitchen table. “How was your day?” he asked.

Enjolras kissed him gently on the lips. “My day was fine. Not nearly as good as yours, from the looks of it. I’m putting that picture up in my office, by the way.” Grantaire made a face and Enjolras kissed him again. “No complaints, no telling me it’s not good enough. There’s nothing I would rather see in my office more.”

“Fine,” sighed Grantaire, though his eyes glinted wickedly. “Though you’re sure you don’t want some of the drawings I’ve done of you to go with it? There’s some very tasteful nudes in there…”

Chuckling, Enjolras pushed Grantaire back so that he was practically bending him backwards over the kitchen table. “There’s also some very tasteless nudes in there, if memory serves me correctly.”

Grantaire grinned and leaned in to capture Enjolras’s tie, tugging him forward. “Taste is in the eye of the beholder,” he whispered before capturing Enjolras’s mouth with his own.

Enjolras bit down on Grantaire’s bottom lip, grinning. “Unfortunately, I doubt that the ones you drew of me jacking off are going to inspire quite the same reaction in my coworkers and clients as they do in you.”

“Oh, they just don’t know what they’re missing…” said Grantaire, his hands slipping down Enjolras sides, but Enjolras swiftly caught them in his own.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he whispered, kissing Grantaire. “Not while Max is awake. And not on the kitchen table. Again.” Grantaire pouted and Enjolras laughed, kissing the tip of Grantaire’s nose. “Oh, cheer up. Max is spending the weekend with Combeferre and Éponine, and we will have the house all to ourselves.”

Grantaire sighed but straightened up. “Fine. But you’re wearing that tie in bed tonight. I find myself awfully fond of it, and of what I could do with it.”

Enjolras eyes darkened and he kissed Grantaire aggressively, one hand cupping Grantaire’s cheek as the other pulled him closer. “Daddy, Dad.” Max’s voice broke through their makeout and they pulled apart, almost guiltily. “I washed my hands,” their son informed them, hands on his hips. “That means it’s time for dinner.”

“That is true,” said Grantaire cheerfully, recovering rather well from the situation. “Let’s go set the table, ok?” As he brushed past Enjolras to follow Max into the kitchen, he tugged slightly on the end of Enjolras’s tie. “Later,” he told him with a wink.

Enjolras just grinned in anticipation. His smile turned softer as he heard Max chide Grantaire, “Dad, you have to wash your hands before dinner. They’re dirty.” He loved coming home from work.


	30. Prompt 27 - Courf/Jehan Remember Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for injury**.

The car came out of nowhere, going too fast and trying too late to swerve. Courfeyrac had just enough time to let out a wordless shout and push Jehan out of the way before the impact.

He was thrown through the air, hitting his head against the pavement with a sickening crack. Jehan ran to him, cradling him against his body. “Je…han,” Courfeyrac breathed through bloody lips, his eyes vacant. “Don’t…don’t leave me.”

Holding him as tightly as he dared, Jehan whispered, “I won’t, Courf, I promise. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

His entire body was tense, his eyes sharp with unspoken emotion. No one dared approach him until the paramedics arrived on the scene. And it was only then that Jehan let go of Courfeyrac.

Jehan sat next to Courfeyrac’s still body, dry-eyed, all the way to the hospital. He sat dry-eyed in the waiting room as Courfeyrac was in surgery. He stood, nodding mutely, still dry-eyed, as the surgeon explained. Traumatic brain injury. Coma. Memory likely affected.

And for two long weeks, Jehan sat at Courfeyrac’s hospital bed, still without shedding a tear. He arrived every morning right when visiting hours began. He sat at Courfeyrac’s bedside all morning, flipping channels on TV, watching terrible morning talk shows, or game shows, giving Courfeyrac running commentary as if he could hear Jehan. At noon, one of their friends would come relieve him as Jehan went to get lunch in the hospital cafeteria, normally a sandwich that he barely ate, watching the clock as it crept toward 12:30. Then he would settle back in at Courfeyrac’s side. During the afternoon, he would read him poetry, or a book, or sometimes just sit in silence, holding his hand and willing him to wake up.

And every night, when visiting hours were over, he would return to their apartment, where he would make himself dinner that he barely ate before putting himself to bed on the couch.

He couldn’t bear to sleep in their bed alone.

One day, when he arrived at the hospital, the staff at the front desk told him Courfeyrac had been moved. Jehan frowned. “What do you mean, he’s been moved?”

The woman checked the computer screen. “He’s been moved to a different room. In the notes it says that he’s woken up?”

Jehan was off running before she even looked up, sprinting through the hallways to the room she had mentioned. He was met outside Courfeyrac’s door by a doctor, who grabbed him by the shoulders. “Mr. Prouvaire,” the doctor greeted him, but Jehan was too busy trying to peer over her shoulder, to get a look at Courfeyrac, sitting up, awake.

“He’s awake,” said Jehan wildly, still resisting the doctor’s firm hold. “They said he was awake. I need to see him.”

The doctor frowned. “Mr. Prouvaire,” she said firmly, and Jehan finally looked at her. “We need to talk about your partner’s condition before you can see him.”

Jehan’s face paled. “His condition?”

“Your partner suffered serious brain trauma. Based on initial tests, we don’t see any major cognitive impairment yet. He has retained normal functions, including speech. Especially speech,” she added dryly, and Jehan grinned.

“That sounds like Courfeyrac.”

The doctor didn’t smile. “Unfortunately, his memory has been affected. When we ran through the tests, he appears to have lost both short and long term memories. With injuries like this, we don’t know if the memories will ever return.”

Nodding seriously, Jehan asked in a small voice, “What does that mean for us?”

“It means that your partner will no longer recognize you, or know who you are, or that you’re in a relationship. In some cases, patients have been known to reject or deny certain parts of their past selves, like, for instance, being gay.”

“Bisexual,” Jehan corrected automatically, his mind racing. Courfeyrac wouldn’t remember him. All those years of friendship, of tentatively drifting towards each other’s magnetic pull, the sonnets, ballads and haikus written for him, their first kiss, their first date, their first fuck, the first time Courfeyrac told him that he loved him, and then told him that he had never told someone that before and meant it…

It was gone. All of it.

Jehan swallowed hard. “Ok,” he said, his voice still small. “Can I…can I still see him?”

“Of course. We’ll introduce you as a friend of his, and don’t overwhelm him with memories. Try and keep him talking to stimulate his brain activity, but if he gets distressed, don’t press him.” Jehan nodded once, and the doctor clapped him on the shoulder, sympathetic look on her face. Then she pushed open the door, assuming a more cheerful expression. “We have a visitor for you,” she informed Courfeyrac. “This is a friend of yours. Mr. Prouvaire.”

Courfeyrac was sitting up in bed, a slight frown on his face, bandages still wrapped around his head. No recognition flickered in his eyes as he looked at Jehan, though he did attempt a smile. “Mr. Prouvaire, huh?” he said, his voice hoarse from being unconscious for two weeks.

Jehan tried to smile as he crossed over to sit next to Courfeyrac, nodding at the doctor as she quietly closed the door. “That’s right. We’re friends, you and I, though you may not remember.”

Frowning, Courfeyrac looked at Jehan closely. “No, I don’t remember it. I don’t remember anything. I don’t even remember who I am.”

Jehan took a shaky breath. “You name is Courfeyrac, but you are often called Courf. Your curls are… _were_  out of control and the last time I tried to make you cut them, you called it your magical fro and said you’d fight anyone who suggested that you needed a haircut. You’re a law student, and a pretty decent one when you want to be, but more often than not you want to go out with our friends. You want to make the world a better place.” Jehan was on a roll now, not even listening to the words that spilled out of his mouth. “You wear bowties because you claim they’re sexy but really you’ve just watched too much Doctor Who. You like dogs, and you like to take care of things, including your friend Marius, who you let live with you for awhile before you even knew him. You’re funny and witty and smart and can be a complete asshole or a complete teddy bear, depending on your mood and how much you’ve had to drink. You used to flirt with everything that moved but you’ve settled down a bit. You claim to take your coffee black but secretly you like it with one cream and two sugars and you would never admit it to Enjolras but you prefer Starbucks over that organic bullshit he makes you drink. You’re the most generous, loving man I have ever met. You’re the center of our group, the warmth, the light that we gather around.”

“I used to love you, didn’t I?” Courfeyrac asked suddenly, a half-smile on his face.

Jehan thought his heart might have stopped. “Do…do you remember?”

The smile slid off Courfeyrac’s face, and he shook his head, chagrined. “No. I just…you talk about me like you loved me and I loved you.” He was silent for a few moments. “Is that how you know so much about me, Jehan?” he asked quietly.

Frowning, Jehan was about to answer when he froze. “What did you call me?”

Frowning as well, Courfeyrac said, “I called you Jehan. I—is that wrong?”

A smile burst across Jehan’s face and his grabbed both of Courfeyrac’s hands, squeezing them in his excitement. “My name, Courf, you remembered my name. I didn’t introduce myself, the doctor called me Mr. Prouvaire, but you remembered, Courf, you remembered!”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember anything else,” Courfeyrac reminded him, still frowning.

Jehan’s grin did not falter. “But it’s still in there. All the memories, everything that’s happened, everything we’ve been through – it’s still there. And I will help you get them back, I swear.”

Courfeyrac began to smile too, just a little, almost shyly. “You really must love me or something, huh?”

Jehan leaned forward to kiss Courfeyrac’s forehead, tears pricking in his eyes. “You have absolutely no idea,” he whispered.

And for the first time since the accident, Jehan wept.


	31. Prompt 28 - E/R Christmas Gifts

To say that Enjolras was not a fan of cats was without doubt an understatement. To say that cats were not fond of Enjolras was probably an overstatement, but it did seem that every cat Enjolras encountered seemed to take personal offense at Enjolras’s existence for some reason.

This was not a problem for most of Enjolras’s life; he merely avoided cats and carried on living his life as if cats were something that did not exist (Combeferre knew to lock Gingivere in his bedroom whenever Enjolras was over).

All of this changed when Enjolras and Grantaire, well, happened. For Grantaire was the proud owner of a large, black and white monster that he called Phillip for reasons no one could quite understand. Phillip was a particularly foul-tempered specimen who instantly disliked Enjolras (and Enjolras still had the scars down his arms to prove it). To be fair, Phillip disliked just about everyone, with Grantaire as the sole exception, but he seemed to particularly hate Enjolras.

It was almost a joke between Enjolras and Grantaire, and a casual reason for why Grantaire needed to spend all his time at Enjolras’s (where their sex would not be punctuated by increasingly loud yowls from outside Grantaire’s bedroom door). Both men had made seeming peace with the fact that Grantaire’s cat and Enjolras were just never going to get along, and Grantaire didn’t even bat an eye when Enjolras referred to Phillip as “Satan” or “the devil incarnate” in casual conversation.

That all changed early one December when Grantaire found out that he was being kicked out of his apartment before the New Year. He called Enjolras in a panic, and Enjolras came and sat with him, soothing him as best he could. “I have nowhere to live,” moaned Grantaire, head in his hands.

Enjolras put an arm around his shoulders. “You can come live with me. You’re at mine all the time anyway, and this way we can celebrate the holidays together. I’ll even let you decorate the apartment and put up Christmas decorations.” (Enjolras’s refusal to participate in the commercialism of holidays was renowned.)

Looking at him incredulously, Grantaire asked softly, “Are you really asking me to move in with you?”

Enjolras frowned. “Of course I am. I love you.”

Grantaire grinned and kissed Enjolras. “Thank you,” he whispered, kissing him again.

When they broke apart, Enjolras cleared his throat. “We have just one problem,” he said, and nodded at Phillip, who had just slunk into the room, yellow eyes gleaming dangerously.

Frowning, Grantaire followed Enjolras’s gaze and looked confused. “What’s the problem?”

"You’re welcome to move in with me, but the cat isn’t," said Enjolras flatly.

Grantaire looked horrified. “What exactly would you like me to do with him?" he demanded.

Enjolras shrugged. “Give him up for adoption, I suppose."

Looking even more scandalized, Grantaire scooped Phillip up and held him close, ignoring his mewed protests. “I can’t just give him away," he said, his eyes pleading. “He’s like my child."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “He’s a  _cat_ , Grantaire, not a child." He gave the cat a look, muttering, “And besides which, I’m not even sure it’s a cat and not a demon in cat form."

As if he had heard him, Phillip gave a loud hiss and swiped at Enjolras, who hastily slid away from Grantaire. “I mean it. You know I love you, and I want you to move in with me, but that cat will not be coming with you.”

Grantaire pressed his nose against Phillip’s, looking crestfallen. “I guess I don’t really have a choice, do I?” he said reluctantly. “I’ll call Ferre and see if he can look after Phillip until I find a more permanent home for him.”

“I’m sorry,” said Enjolras, a little awkwardly. “It’s just, you know Phillip and I…we’ve never…and I just got new furniture…”

Grantaire gave him a tight smile, still clutching Phillip to him. “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “I’m just gonna go call Ferre. And then we can talk about how you want to decorate your place for Christmas.”

Enjolras stared after Grantaire as he carried Phillip into the bedroom, a sinking feeling in his chest. He had wanted to ask Grantaire to move in with him for a long time, if only for convenience’s sake. Why then did he feel like what should be a happy occasion was anything but?

* * *

 

A little over a week later, Enjolras was busy putting the finishing touches on his apartment. Grantaire was moving in the next day, and so Enjolras was doing some last minute things, shifting things around in the closets and drawers to make room, when a sudden knock sounded at the door. When Enjolras answered it, he was surprised to find Jehan outside. “Jehan! Good to see you.”

Jehan did not look pleased to see him. “May I come in?” he asked, brushing past Enjolras before he could respond.

“Um, sure,” said Enjolras, closing the door behind Jehan and frowning. “Is something wrong?”

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Jehan glared at Enjolras. “That depends. Did you really tell Grantaire that he has to get rid of his cat to move in with you?”

Enjolras frowned, crossing his own arms defensively. “I may have,” he said carefully. “I imagine you’re not happy with that.”

Jehan scowled. “That’s an understatement.”

Sighing, Enjolras asked, “Are you at least going to tell me why?”

"Do you know why Grantaire got that damn cat in the first place?" Jehan asked, a hard edge in his voice. When Enjolras just shook his head, Jehan leaned forward, eyes flashing. “He got it so that he would have a reason to get up in the morning."

Enjolras blinked and frowned. “What do you mean?"

Jehan looked startled for a moment, then frowned. “You know about Grantaire’s depression?"

"Of course," said Enjolras, looking affronted. 

"Did you know it used to be so bad that he would stay in bed for days?" asked Jehan quietly. “Did you know that he thought about killing himself?"

Enjolras swallowed, hard. When he and Grantaire had gotten together, they had discussed their mutual pasts, and the subject of Grantaire’s depression had come up. They avoided talking about it for the most part, though Enjolras was sure to keep an eye on Grantaire’s moods and drinking, just in case. But they had never talked about Grantaire wanting to kill himself. “No,” he whispered, a little hollowly. “No, I didn’t know that.”

Jehan’s expression softened, just a little. “I don’t know if he ever really wanted to do it. He was in a very dark place, Enjolras, and it has nothing to do with you, so don’t think that. But there were some days where that cat was the only thing that kept him going.”

Nodding mutely, Enjolras still frowned, his stomach in knots. “Look, I’m not saying that the cat isn’t the devil incarnate," Jehan said quietly, half-smiling at the thought, “but he means the world to Grantaire. The only thing Grantaire cares about more than that cat is you, and for a very long time, Grantaire didn’t have you in his life. So just…reconsider it, alright?"

“I…will take that under advisement,” Enjolras said slowly. “Thanks Jehan.”

Jehan smiled, a true smile, for the first time since walking in the door. “Glad to be of service,” he said. “Now I’m pretty sure you have a call to make?”

Enjolras half-smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

* * *

 

Grantaire sat almost nervously on Enjolras’s – no,  _their_  – couch. He was all moved in, but this was the first time he’d been alone in the… _their_  apartment since moving in.

He had spent most of the day decorating the apartment for Christmas while Enjolras was out running a mysterious errand ( _probably buying my Christmas gift_ , Grantaire thought). It had helped to take his mind off things but now that he was alone, he missed Phillip’s rusty purr as the cat would wind along his legs.

There was a rapid knock on the door and Grantaire started from his position on the couch. With a frown, he went to answer the door, trying not to feel self-conscious, reminding himself that it was his place now, too, not just Enjolras’s. 

When he opened the door, there was no one there, just a folded piece of paper in front of the door. Frowning, Grantaire bent and picked it up, unfolding it to read, " _I fucked up. And I’m sorry. Forgive me? Merry Christmas - Enjolras._ ”

Brow furrowed, Grantaire looked up to see Enjolras standing at the end of the hall, arms clutched resolutely around Phillip, who looked positively furious (especially if the scratches all up and down Enjolras’s arms and all over his face were any indication). Grantaire was so shocked that he dropped the piece of paper, staring open-mouthed at Enjolras, who came carefully forward. “I’m so, so sorry," said Enjolras softly, eyes worried. “I didn’t realize - I was so stupid, Taire, and I’m so sorry—"

Grantaire didn’t say anything, instead reaching out to lift Phillip out of Enjolras’s arms. He nuzzled Phillip for just a moment, then deposited him inside the apartment. He turned back to Enjolras, who still looked nervous and concerned. Without saying a word, Grantaire grabbed Enjolras by the front of his shirt, yanking him into their apartment and practically shoving him against the wall, kissing him fiercely.

Enjolras kissed him back hungrily, cupping his cheek, both men resolutely ignoring Phillip, who was sputtering indignantly at being ignored.

An hour later, Enjolras sat on the couch, Grantaire curled up against his chest, one hand entwined with Enjolras’s. “You’re ok with him?” Grantaire asked quietly, rubbing Phillip’s belly with his free hand.

Enjolras shot Phillip a sideways glance, half-smiling at the way Phillip purred. “He and I will probably never be friends,” he admitted, “but in his own way, Phillip loves you. And you love him. And that’s enough for me.”

Grantaire leaned in to kiss Enjolras. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

Enjolras just smiled and pulled Grantaire closer to him, pressing a kiss against his forehead. “Merry Christmas, Taire.”


	32. Prompt 29 - Combeferre as a Dad

Combeferre thought he was prepared to be a dad. He had read all the books, attended every single pre-parenting class he could, subscribed to every messaging board on the internet, and even asked for advice from his parents. But as he held his baby daughter Amelia for the very first time, pressing the gentlest of kisses into her fine, fuzzy hair, he knew that nothing could have prepared him for fatherhood.

It was a lesson he continued to learn along the way, through each of the moments during her childhood. Fatherhood was better than he could ever have expected, leading him to not only tolerate but secretly enjoy the small moments alone with Amelia, when they would have tea parties with her dolls and teddy bears, trying not to giggle as she introduced him to her stuffed animals as ‘Mrs. Ferre’, instead politely accepting the tiny plastic cup and sipping at the air obediently, even sticking his pinky out when commanded.

Or when Mia decided she wanted to paint his nails, meticulously painting each alternating nail sparkly pink and purple as he sat patiently, small smile on his face.

Of course, not all moments were sweet. As she painted his nails one day, she asked in her innocent 5-year-old’s voice what it meant to be gay. Combeferre froze. “Where did you hear that word?” he asked carefully.

She shrugged. “A kid in class called someone that.”

Combeferre frowned. “You know Uncle Enjolras and Uncle Grantaire? And how they love each other?” Mia nodded. “Well, when a man loves another man, instead of loving a woman, that’s what it means to be gay.”

Frowning as well, Mia said, “But they love each other. So that’s not a bad thing.”

“No, it’s not a bad thing,” said Combeferre, feeling vaguely proud of his daughter for recognizing that.

Her frown deepened. “But if it’s a good thing, why did Tommy say it? He meant to be mean ‘cause he was talking to Eric and he hates Eric.”

Combeferre’s heart seemed to drop. How did one explain what homophobia was to a child? These were the things they didn’t talk about in the parenting books. “Well, some people believe that being gay is wrong. They think that men are only supposed to love women.”

“But that’s silly,” said Mia, confused. “Uncle Enj loves Uncle Grantaire and they’re really happy so why would that be wrong?”

“Because people are afraid of what’s different,” Combeferre said simply. “And since it’s the scariest thing they can think of, they call other people that to try and hurt them.”

The next time Amelia saw Enjolras and Grantaire, she ran up to both of them and announced, “You’re gay.”

Enjolras and Grantaire exchanged swift glances before Grantaire knelt down to her level. “Yes, we are,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is there a problem with that?”

She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Of course not. You love each other. But sometimes people are meanies about it because they’re scared ‘cause you’re different. But I’m different too, my daddy said so, ‘cause he said we’re all different.”

Grantaire pulled her into a gentle hug. “You’re a very smart little girl, did you know that?”

Mia grinned toothily at him. “Yeah I did.”

Of course, Amelia couldn’t stay that young and innocent forever, and while Combeferre made sure to be there for her whenever possible, whether it was cheering her on at every single one of her soccer or softball games, or giving her a standing ovation when she was in the school play, or just making her hot chocolate and letting her cry on his shoulder when all of her friends seemed to abandon her in middle school, time seemed to pass too quickly. Most importantly, he tried to raise his little girl right so that when it came time for her to face the world, she could do so as a strong, independent woman.

Which didn’t mean he was looking forward to the day that she would do so. When her first boyfriend came to pick her up for her first date, Combeferre, who had spoken in-depth with Marius about his first-time meeting Cosette’s father, sat at the kitchen table, fingers steepled in front of him. When the boy nervously said hello, Combeferre did perhaps the worst thing a father could do: he smiled, and asked him to sit.

Five minutes of increasingly uncomfortable questions and less and less thinly veiled threats later, Amelia came into the kitchen and broke up Combeferre’s interrogation. She rolled her eyes, grabbed her boyfriend’s hand, and pulled him out of the house. But just as they were almost out the door, she looked back at Combeferre, smiled, and winked.

But even the days of ‘firsts’ were numbered, as Amelia approached graduation and heading off to college. As they watched Mia cross the stage and receive her diploma as valedictorian of her class, Enjolras clapped Combeferre on the shoulder and told him, “You did well.”

And he had. And objectively, he knew he had. It didn’t stop the knot of worry that had lodged itself permanently in his gut, worried that his little girl was going to get knocked around by the world and there was nothing he could do about it, worried that her heart would get broken beyond what hot chocolate and a shoulder to cry on could fix, and worried, perhaps most of all, that one day she would find a man, a man whom she loved and who made her smile and laugh, a man who replace Combeferre in her heart.

That worry was relieved, just a little, even if only temporarily, when she gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek as he dropped her off at college and whispered, “You’ll always be my daddy. And I love you.”


	33. Prompt 30 - E/R Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ridiculously fluffy. I'm not even sorry.

When Enjolras asked Grantaire to teach him to dance, Grantaire choked on the wine he was drinking. “I’m sorry?” he spluttered, setting the bottle on the table.

Though Enjolras’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the bottle, he repeated, “I need to learn how to dance and I have it on good authority that you would be the person to teach me.”

“Um, right,” said Grantaire, heart racing at the thought of dancing with Enjolras, of standing that close to him, of holding him in his arms… “Right. Yeah. Absolutely. Come over to my place tomorrow around 5?”

Enjolras nodded, unsmiling and unusually somber. “5 works for me. I’ll see you then.”

The next day at 5, Grantaire was furiously finishing his cleaning when Enjolras knocked on the door. “Prompt as always,” Grantaire said, smiling slightly as he let Enjolras in. He led Enjolras into the living room, then bit his lip, suddenly nervous. “Uh, you just want to learn to dance in general? Nothing specific?”

Shaking his head, Enjolras said, “No, nothing specific.”

“Then we’ll start with the basic waltz,” said Grantaire, sounding far more confident than he felt.

He walked over to the stereo and turned it on, the pre-made playlist he had put together this afternoon starting. He returned to stand in front of Enjolras. “Alright, now face me.”

Obediently, Enjolras turned to face Grantaire. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” said Grantaire, taking a quick deep breath. “Now, take my hand," Grantaire instructed, and Enjolras reluctantly took it. “Take a breath." Enjolras looked at him suspiciously but did so. “Pull me close, and take one step."

Enjolras dropped his hand and scowled. “Are you quoting  _High School Musical 3_  instead of teaching me to dance?"

Grantaire grinned cheekily. “I am agog and aghast that you recognized that."

"I lived with Courfeyrac for two years," Enjolras reminded Grantaire. “If you don’t think I’ve got every _High School Musical_  song memorized from all three movies, think again. The man is relentless when it comes to playing the same songs over and over."

Grinning even wider, Grantaire said, “Well, in that case, yes, I was using  _High School Musical_ , but it’s actually very relevant in a lot of ways, not to mention a good way to teach you - believe it or not. C’mon." He held out his hand, which Enjolras took again, resuming their previous position. “A little closer, Apollo," Grantaire chuckled. “I won’t bite - at least, not much."

Enjolras rolled his eyes but pulled Grantaire closer, his free hand slipping around to rest on Grantaire’s waist. “Now, as the song says - keep your eyes locked on mine, and let the music be your guide." 

"That’s easier said than done," objected Enjolras.

Grantaire smiled. “You have to feel the rhythm, Enj. Give it a moment. Listen for the beat. Feel the music move through your body." As Enjolras frowned, trying to concentrate, Grantaire moved his hands to Enjolras’s hips, slowly pushing them back and forth in time to the music. “Do you feel it?”

Unless Grantaire was mistaken, Enjolras blushed ever so slightly. “Yeah. I, I think so.”

“Alright, then just take small steps in time to the music,” said Grantaire, as if it was that simple. He returned his hands to their proper position, one in Enjolras’s, one resting lightly on his shoulder. “C’mon, Enj, you’ve got to move.”

Swallowing, Enjolras took a tentative step, Grantaire matching his movement, and then another. Soon enough, they were what might nominally be called dancing, although Enjolras rather suspected that Grantaire was doing more of the leading than he was supposed to.

When the song ended, Grantaire stepped away carefully. “So, did that show you enough?” he asked mildly. “Do you think you’ve got the hang of dancing?”

Enjolras bit his lip. “Maybe just…one more? To be sure.”

Four songs later, Enjolras finally stated that he had the moves down and Grantaire reluctantly agreed, bending over the stereo to turn it off, expecting Enjolras to leave.

Instead he waited, a curious look on his face. “Why that song?" Enjolras asked abruptly as Grantaire straightened.

Grantaire raised a questioning eyebrow at him. “Beg pardon?"

"There have to be a thousand different songs related to dancing, not to mention you’re far too good a teacher to need to rely on words from a song to teach me to dance. So why did you choose to reference that  _High School Musical_  song to teach me?"

For the first time all day, Grantaire looked flustered. “I…no reason. I just, I like that song, ok? Don’t tell Courf."

Enjolras didn’t smile at the joke. “You said it was relevant, in a lot of ways. What did you mean by that?"

Grantaire crossed his arms in front of his chest. “This isn’t twenty questions, Enjolras. I did what you asked me to - I taught you to dance. Now go away."

"No." Enjolras took a step towards Grantaire, his eyes dark. “I won’t. Not until you answer." Grantaire clamped his mouth shut and glared at him. “What other parts of the song were relevant, Grantaire, and to what? 

‘It’s like catching lightning  
The chances of finding  
Someone like you  
It’s one in a million  
The chances of feeling  
The way we do’.

To whom are you referring when you think of those lyrics?"

Turning away, Grantaire shrugged, his shoulders tense. “It doesn’t matter," he answered hoarsely. “It’s not one in a million, it’s zero in a million because he…doesn’t feel the same way."

Enjolras asked quietly, “Are you sure about that?"

"Pretty damn sure."

Grantaire felt Enjolras’s hand touch his shoulder, tentative, unsure, and allowed Enjolras to turn him around, to tilt his chin up so Grantaire was forced to meet Enjolras’s steely blue eyes. “Grantaire," Enjolras said softly, his eyes unreadable. “Can I have this dance?"

Grantaire just stared at him. After a long moment, he managed to choke out, “Are…are you serious?"

Enjolras half-smiled. “As serious as I can be considering I just quoted  _High School Musical at_  you."

"I…of…of course…I mean…Jesus Christ, for fuck’s sake Enjolras!" Grantaire practically shouted. “You couldn’t have mentioned this a bit earlier?"

Shrugging unconcernedly, Enjolras said, “I wasn’t sure you felt the same way. Combeferre told me to just tell you how I felt, but when I tried, I don’t think it went over well."

Grantaire stared at him. “You mean…that time at the Musain… _that’s_  what you were trying to tell me?"

Enjolras bit his lip. “I realize now my meaning may have been a bit…obtuse."

Letting out a snort of laughter, Grantaire ran a hand over his face. “Enj, you told me that you thought I was an upstanding citizen."

"I was trying to show you that I thought you had value," Enjolras protested.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “My own  _mother_  doesn’t think I’m an upstanding citizen. I thought you were mocking me."

Enjolras frowned. “I wasn’t, I promise."

"Well I got that now," chuckled Grantaire, rolling his eyes again.

Smiling a little, Enjolras said quietly, “You know, you never answered my question. Both to whom you were referring and, in not so many words, if that someone is me."

"Of course it’s you," said Grantaire instantly, reaching out as if to touch Enjolras, though he hesitated, his hand dropping down by his side. “It’s always been you. Everyone knows that. Except, apparently, for you. I’d say that I was good at hiding it, but really…"

"Really I’m just an idiot for not noticing sooner," finished Enjolras, still smiling, though his eyes looked a little sad. “But I know now, and so I repeat my question." He held out his hand expectantly. “Can I have this dance?"

Grantaire slipped his hand into Enjolras’s, blushing slightly. “Of course."

Without warning, Enjolras pulled Grantaire close to him and bent to kiss him, a fierce, almost wild kiss at first that settled into a steadier rhythm, Enjolras’s hands warm and firm on Grantaire’s hips as Grantaire curled his fingers into Enjolras’s hair.

Neither man knew how long they stayed that way, lost in the moment, so caught up in each other than neither wanted to be the first to pull away. When they finally did break apart, Enjolras asked, almost a little shyly, “So…you’re my boyfriend now?”

“I guess. If you want to call it that,” Grantaire said quickly, willing as always to give Enjolras a way out.

Enjolras smiled and kissed Grantaire’s cheek. “I do want to call it that.” He frowned slightly. “Just…do me a favor, will you? Don’t…don’t tell anyone about this, alright? Like, the specific details. Tell them that I finally came to my sense, which is true enough. But Courfeyrac—”

“Courfeyrac will never let you live it down if he were to find out you asked me out via a  _High School Musical_  song?” Grantaire supplied, grinning widely. “Fine with me. But if you think I’m not going to hold on to this to use for blackmail in the future…”

His laugh was cut off but Enjolras kissing him again.

* * *

 

Two years later, Enjolras and Grantaire stood in front of their friends and family wearing matching tuxedos as they got married. When they got to the vows, Grantaire read his first, full of promises to love, to cherish, and to annoy Enjolras until the end of time (the crowd laughed at the last one).

When it was Enjolras’s turn, he cleared his throat nervously. “I made Grantaire promise, a long time ago now, it seems, to never tell anyone how we got together, to just say that I came to my senses. Which I did. But there’s something else involved that a certain mutual friend of ours would find very amusing and would never let rest.”

All eyes turned instantly to Courfeyrac, who looked insulted for a moment that they assumed it was him, then shrugged and mouthed, “I’m not even sorry.”

Chuckling, Enjolras continued, “I asked Grantaire out thanks to a song, and it only makes sense that I would vow my eternal love to him through that same song.”

He looked at Grantaire, who was grinning wildly even as tears were filling his eyes. “Take my hand, I’ll take the lead, and every turn will be safe with me. Don’t be afraid, afraid to fall; you know I’ll catch you through it all. You can’t keep us apart, because my heart—” Enjolras’s voice broke a little, and Grantaire squeezed his hand “—my heart is wherever you are.”

Enjolras looked up and smiled. “Let it rain, let it pour, what we have is worth fighting for. You know I believe that we were meant to be.” He squeezed Grantaire’s hands back. “We were meant to be, Grantaire, and I am so very glad to spend the rest of my life dancing with you.”

Not even waiting for the officiant, Grantaire, threw his arms around Enjolras and kissed him. Enjolras kissed him back, ignoring the sound of their friends laughing and whooping, the crows of triumph Courfeyrac was making – something about being the sole reason Enjolras and Grantaire ended up together – just kissing the man in front of him, with whom he would dance, forever.


	34. Prompt 31 - Courfeyrac cheating on Jehan

It was perhaps prophetic that Courfeyrac wore his “Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol” t-shirt out to the bar that Saturday night.

He hadn’t set out with the intention of getting wasted. He had, in fact, just wanted to go out and have a few relaxing drinks with some friends. It had been a long week at school, with finals approaching and his law professors piling even more work on than usual. To top it off, Jehan was in a mood, or a snit, or whatever. Courfeyrac had tried to be patient, but there was only so much he could do when Jehan flat-out refused to talk to him about what was going on.

So he had agreed to go out with some friends of him from law school, friends who weren’t associated with Les Amis, friends who he hoped would take his mind off of everything, if just for a few hours.

Of course, he hadn’t counted on a few hours turning into an entire night.

It started with a few beers at a low-key bar, which was fine. They discussed their impending finals for a bit, blowing off steam and slandering their professors in the way that only disgruntled students can. Then one of Courfeyrac’s friends suggested going to a club across town. Courfeyrac thought of Jehan, sitting at home alone, and shook his head ruefully as he finished his beer. “Fun as that sounds, guys, I should be getting home.”

“Aw, c’mon. Live a little!” encouraged one of his friends. “We know you’ve got your little lady at home—”

“Boyfriend,” Courfeyrac corrected automatically.

“But, c’mon, man, you haven’t been out with us in ages,” he continued as if Courfeyrac hadn’t interrupted him. “I mean, I haven’t seen you out partying and having fun since 1L. Just one night to go crazy, you know? We’re gonna have to take the bar soon enough, may as well enjoy things while we can.”

Courfeyrac hesitated. “Let me just make a quick call,” he said as the guys erupted into cheers and whoops.

He went outside, pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing Jehan’s number. “Hello?” answered Jehan, sounding almost pathetic on the other end.

It took a lot of effort for Courfeyrac not to roll his eyes – because unless Jehan told Courf why he was upset, there wasn’t a damn thing Courfeyrac could do to fix it. Instead, he took a deep breath. “Hey, baby, I just wanted to let you know that it looks like I’m going to be staying out a little longer. The guys want to keep drinking, you know, to de-stress before finals and all.”

“Oh,” said Jehan listlessly. Suddenly the rest of the guys spilled out of the bar, talking and laughing loudly behind Courfeyrac as they thumped him on the back. “Where are you?” asked Jehan curiously, obviously able to hear the guys behind him.

Courfeyrac frowned at his friends and said, “Just this bar nearby. I’ll be home late, alright? So no need to stay up for me or anything.” His friends were hailing a cab and Courfeyrac quickly said, “I gotta go, babe, I’ll talk to you later,” and hung up.

Once at the club, they ordered a round of shots. Then another. And then another. And since Courfeyrac was really not used to drinking like this anymore, after several beers and shots in the space of only a couple hours, especially not since he had started trading his nights out for nights in, and $2 beer nights for poetry slams, he could tell he was already starting to feel drunk.

And unlike Grantaire, for instance, who used his drunkenness to wax poetic on the human condition (or sometimes just the fine condition of Enjolras’s ass), Courfeyrac when drunk became even more of a flirt than he was when sober. Which meant his first order of business, five shots in, was to order a round of tequila shooters for the trio of very pretty girls sitting halfway down the bar. When they received them, they looked over enquiringly, and Courfeyrac smiled, waved, and toasted them with a shot of his own. Then, standing – with considerable difficulty – he stumbled over to lean on the bar next to them, smile still on his face. “You girls are very pretty,” he told them. “Far too pretty to be sitting here at the bar. Why aren’t you out on the dance floor?”

The middle girl, a brunette with curves in all the right places, gave him a sultry grin. “Maybe we were just waiting for the right guy to come along and ask.” Her smile widened. “You were asking, right?”

“If I wasn’t before, I am now,” said Courfeyrac, holding out a gentlemanly hand and letting her lead him to the dance floor.

Courfeyrac had gone out that night to not think about Jehan, to concentrate just on having fun and letting loose. But he should have been thinking about Jehan, just a little, just in the back of his mind, as he began to dance with this girl. If he had thought of Jehan, of what this would do to him, of how this would rip him – would rip  _them_  – apart, he might not have done what he did.

But he didn’t think of Jehan.

He didn’t think of Jehan as he grinded against the girl, hands running down her sides, squeezing her ass, just slipping under the waistband of her jeans in the most teasing way possible.

He didn’t think of Jehan as she palmed him through his own jeans, which seemed to grow increasingly tight.

He didn’t think of Jehan as he bent to kiss her, a heady, open-mouthed kiss that was sloppier than it would have been were he sober.

He didn’t think of Jehan as she took his hand and led him off the dance floor, towards the door, telling him, “Let’s go back to my place, I only live a block away.”

He definitely didn’t think of Jehan as he tugged her shirt over her head, as she unzipped his jeans, as she pulled him down onto the bed with her.

No, he didn’t think of Jehan until the next morning, when he woke up just before noon in an unfamiliar apartment, completely naked, hickeys on his neck and scratches down his back. And then he thought of Jehan, of Jehan’s perfect face, of the way Jehan’s nose scrunched when Courfeyrac kissed his freckles, of the way Jehan’s eyes couldn’t decide if they were green or blue. He thought of Jehan’s hand, warm and strong in his, tracing patterns and writing words down his spine. He thought of Jehan’s laugh and Jehan’s smile. He tried desperately to not think of Jehan crying, of that smile disappearing forever, but he couldn’t seem to stop thinking of it.

And then he thought of his entire world, crashing down around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _To be Continued…_


	35. Prompt 32 - Subtle Possessive!Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in roughly the same verse as my previous [Possessive!Enjolras](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841398/chapters/1634774) [drabbles](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841398/chapters/1668015).

Grantaire was nervous. Tonight was his first gallery show, the first time he’d be showing his art off to the general public. And while he laughed it off with his friends, called it a gathering of elitist pricks pretending to like art, he desperately wanted to make a good impression. So he dressed up, in a crisp white shirt with gray dress pants and matching vest. He went to show Enjolras, who, though hardly the definitive expert on clothing choices, had been to far more events of this ilk than he.

Enjolras looked over the top of his newspaper with a critical eye. “You need to wear a tie,” he said.

Grantaire made a face. “I hate wearing ties. You know that.”

“It needs a tie. And you’ll look more presentable with a tie.” Enjolras raised the newspaper back up and added, “Wear the red one. I like the red one.”

Sighing, Grantaire returned to their bedroom to fetch the tie in question, and then brought it out to Enjolras so that he could tie it for him (despite Grantaire’s many talents, tying a tie was not one of them).

As Enjolras folded the newspaper and set it on the coffeetable, Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you wanted me to wear the red one?” he asked, nodding towards Enjolras’s outfit, a red blazer and black dress pants.

Enjolras looked down at himself and back at Grantaire, confused. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and handed the tie to Enjolras while he popped his collar. “We’re going to match, you doofus.”

“We’re…oh.” With deft hands, Enjolras swiftly tied the tied into a perfect double Windsor knot. “Is that a problem that we match?”

Wrinkling his nose, Grantaire huffed, “We just…we look like a couple.”

Enjolras laughed, snaking his arms around Grantaire’s waist to pull him close. “And what exactly is the problem with that? We  _are_  a couple, and I personally would rather the whole world know it than have to watch people flirt with the gorgeous artist at tonight’s art show.”

“What gorgeous artist?” Grantaire asked, but he was smiling as he leaned in to kiss Enjolras gently on the lips. “Besides, this artist is going to be too worried about people trying to run off with his boyfriend since that jacket is goddamned  _criminal_ …”

Grantaire’s voice was almost a purr at the end, and he kissed Enjolras again, deeper and more fiercely. Enjolras chuckled against his lips. “You’ll be the only one taking this jacket off me tonight, I promise. But later, alright? If we don’t hurry, you’ll be late for your own show.”

They weren’t late, and in fact were able to spend most of the cab ride over making out, though Enjolras was careful about it, trying not to muss Grantaire’s clothes or hair too badly (and only half-succeeding, such that when they piled out of the cab the back of Grantaire’s hair was sticking straight up, but still, Grantaire’s cheek were flushed in that perfect way that brought out the blue eyes and went lovely with the red of his tie, and it took all of Enjolras’s self-control not to kiss him again).

He settled for grinning and taking Grantaire’s hand, kissing him gently on the cheek and whispering, “Don’t be nervous.”

Grantaire snorted. “Nervous? Do I look nervous to you?” Still, his hand tightened around Enjolras’s, and they walked into the gallery together.

As it turned out, Grantaire had nothing to be worried about. The show went incredibly well, with the bourgeois clientele seeming to love his paintings, many of them selling right then and there. Enjolras stayed at his side the entire time.

In fact, Enjolras seemed to touch some part of Grantaire the entire time. From holding his hand to slipping an arm around Grantaire’s waist to just letting their hands brush against each other, he was a constant physical presence. On the one hand, this didn’t entirely surprise Grantaire – they were both relatively tactile and were very touchy with each other in their apartment. But on the other hand, this wasn’t their apartment, and though Grantaire wasn’t really bothered by it, he was confused.

It didn’t hit him until Enjolras was shaking hands with someone and introducing himself as Grantaire’s boyfriend: Enjolras was staking his claim. He had clearly meant it when he said he was worried about someone flirting with Grantaire. It would be cute if it wasn’t…well, if it wasn’t a little annoying.

Enjolras had no need to worry, no need to stake his claim. As if Grantaire would ever leave him, especially for one of these upper class douches who didn’t know a thing about art. No, Grantaire already had an upper class douche who didn’t know a thing about art, one who was also smart and kind and witty and gorgeous and who occasionally wanted to paint the town with the blood of his enemies (Grantaire especially loved Enjolras when he was in those kinds of moods because, well, because the sex was phenomenal).

So for Enjolras to think he had to make some kind of statement, some kind of show to demonstrate how completely Grantaire was his…it was absurd, plain and simple. And a little embarrassing.

At the next free moment, when they were in between customers wanting to shake Grantaire’s hand and congratulate him on the show, Grantaire tugged Enjolras to the back of the gallery, slipping outside into the back alley. Enjolras followed willingly enough, though his brow wrinkled in confusion. “Whatever you’re planning, I doubt we have time for it before you’d be missed,” Enjolras said with a smile, his eyes twinkling deviously as he stepped closer to Grantaire, hands automatically going to Grantaire’s hips.

Grantaire scowled. “That’s not…I didn’t bring you out here for that.”

“Oh?” Enjolras asked mildly, though his eyes still twinkled. “Because I was only joking about the amount of time it would take—”

Pushing Enjolras’s hands off his hips, Grantaire snapped, “Be serious for half a second, would you?”

Enjolras burst out laughing. “My, how the tables have turned,” he chortled before assuming a more somber expression. “I’m sorry. What is it you brought me out here for?”

“I brought you out here because you don’t…you don’t need to be doing all  _that_.” Grantaire gestured vaguely in the direction of the gallery.

Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras asked, “All what, precisely?”

Waving a hand, feeling his face start to burn, Grantaire muttered, “All the touching and the calling me your boyfriend. It’s a little unnecessary.”

Enjolras frowned, and he looked even more puzzled. “Do you not like that? Do you not want me to do that?”

Grantaire looked up at him. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I mean, no, I  _do_  like it. But you…you don’t  _have_  to. To…to stake a claim on me or something. It’s not like I’m some hot commodity that’s going to get scooped up while your back is turned. Just…you don’t have to do that, any of that.”

The confused expression melted off Enjolras’s face, replaced by something far softer. He reached out to cup Grantaire’s cheek, to run a thumb along his cheekbone. “Taire, it’s not that I  _have_  to show the world you’re mine, to stake a claim on you, as you called it. It’s that I  _want_  to show the world that you’re mine, and that I’m yours.” He pulled Grantaire closer to him, kissing him, impossibly gentle. “You’re the absolute best thing in my life. Of course I want to show that you’re mine, that we’re together. So don’t think I’m doing this because I have to – I’m doing this because I want to. And if you don’t want me to—”

“No,” said Grantaire quickly, “no, I want you to. I…really, I do. I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

Enjolras bent and kissed him again, hand sliding from Grantaire’s cheek to fist in Grantaire’s curls, and Grantaire opened his mouth eagerly against Enjolras’s, pulling him closer so that their hips were flush. Enjolras let out a huff of laughter. “If we continue this, I don’t think the owners will be too happy with you.”

Grantaire sighed, stepping carefully away from Enjolras. “I hate when you’re the voice of reason,” he huffed.

“I’m  _always_  the voice of reason,” Enjolras reminded him, adjusting his clothes. “Now c’mon, we best get back inside.”

Grantaire shrugged, trying to flatten his hair as best he could. “Oh, one last thing,” said Enjolras casually, pausing on his way back into the gallery, “I don’t own you, Grantaire. You’re mine only because you want to be, and mine for only as long as you consent to be. You could easily change your mind, get tired of me, and leave. So don’t think that I don’t wake up every day and thank whatever higher power there may be that you are still mine.”

Then he slipped back into the gallery, leaving a blushing Grantaire alone in the alley, a slow, lovesick smile spreading across his face.


	36. Prompt 33 - Éponine having her period (Ép/Combeferre)

A few weeks into their relationship, Combeferre was kissing his way down Éponine’s neck when she stopped him. “Not tonight, ok?" she said lightly.

"Uh, sure," he said, confused. Not that he wanted to brag, but they had literally had sex every single night they’d been dating thus far (and often more than once a night), so this was a sudden change in attitude. “Is everything alright?”

She laughed and kissed him lightly. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just sleep."

So he tried not to worry about. But then she didn’t want to have sex the next night either. Or the night after that. On top of that, she seemed tired and worn out. And he was beginning to get worried.

His worries were confirmed when he saw her talking in undertones to Joly, who was listening with his brow creased in concern. He knew Éponine well, knew how much she hated doctors, and knew that she would only go to Joly if it was serious.

Combeferre was a man who prided himself on his rationality. And were it anyone else, under any other circumstances (the exception perhaps being Enjolras, for very different reasons), Combeferre would have chalked it up to an over-active imagination.

But it wasn’t anyone else. And though they had not been dating long, their relationship was equal parts comfortable and passionate in a way he had never felt with another human being (again, exception perhaps being Enjolras, for  _very_  different reasons).

So instead of thinking things through, instead of taking the rational course of action, Combeferre waited until Éponine left and then went over to Joly. He cleared his throat loudly and asked in what he hoped was a casual way, “What were you and Éponine talking about?"

Without looking up, Joly made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “Nothing much."

Combeferre said urgently, “I…I know you can’t tell me anything, doctor-patient confidentiality or whatever bullshit, but c’mon Joly, just give me a hint, something. Let me know that she’s ok."

Joly looked over the top of his medical textbook and raised an eyebrow. “Even if there were something to tell, I can’t tell you anything. You know that. You should really be talking to Éponine about this. And you know that, too."

"She’s sick, isn’t she?" Combeferre was beginning to sound as panicked as he felt. “Oh god, oh god. Ok. Tell me what I can do for her, Joly, please."

Closing his textbook and setting it carefully on the table in front of him, Joly rubbed his temples. “There’s literally nothing you can do for her, Ferre. I promise you that."

Combeferre sank into the chair across from him, face pale. “Do you…do you mean…is she going to die?"

Joly ran his hands over his face, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “No, it’s not - she’s not gonna die. She…it…For fuck’s sake, do you really not know what’s going on?" When Combeferre just shook his head wordlessly, Joly buried his face in his hands, something that sounded suspiciously like muffled uproarious laughter, punctuated by the occasional snort just managing to reach Combeferre, who looked equal parts confused and offended.

Bossuet cleared his throat, also suspiciously looking like he was trying not to laugh. “Uh, what Joly was trying to say is that there’s nothing you can because, um, this is, erm, natural? Shall we say? So beyond getting her, like, Midol or a heating pad or something if she needs it, um, you’re just gonna have to wait for it to pass." Combeferre looked at him blankly, and Bossuet added helpfully, “And, you know, it’ll be back again in like a month? And, you know, the month after that?"

"Oh. OH," said Combeferre, comprehension dawning on his face, followed almost instantly by a blush that was the most fantastic shade of scarlet. “Oh. Um. Right. So I’ll just…I’ll just go."

He made his escape quickly, but he still heard Joly exclaim, “For someone who’s so smart to be so dumb…” before dissolving into another fit of laughter.

Combeferre was incredibly intelligent, of course, but he just…he hadn’t thought about  _that_. He hadn’t had any reason to think about that in…well, in quite some time, not since his last girlfriend, which was long enough ago that he had forgotten about that monthly occurrence.

Feeling guilty and quite stupid for not figuring out what was going on sooner, he stopped by the store on the way home, picking up some things.

When he got home, he found Éponine at the kitchen table and set the bag in front of her as a peace offering. “Here."

She looked down at it, confused. “What’s this?"

"Joly told me…or, I mean, I asked him, technically, what was going on with you." Combeferre sat down across from her, serious expression on his face. “Why didn’t you tell me you were menstrual?"

Éponine’s face turned scarlet. “Don’t say that word," she hissed.

Combeferre frowned, undeterred. “I mean it, Ép. Why didn’t you tell me? You know I’d want to know, that I could handle it. It’s a natural process. You don’t have to hide anything from me."

To his surprise, she started laughing. “I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d figure it out, you idiot."

"I…you…what?"

She laughed even harder. “You’re so perceptive - it’s one of the thing I love about you - that I just figured you would put two and two together."

His frown deepened. “Then what were you talking to Joly about?"

"Musichetta wanted to know if I’d tried out this homeopathic bloating remedy. I had, and wanted to tell Joly about it, since you know what he gets like." She cocked her head slightly. “That’s all it was, I promise."

Combeferre leaned forward, running tired hands across his face. “God, I thought you were sick, or worse. You had me worried, Ép."

She made a wry face. “To be fair, I am the one bleeding out of my vagina, so if anyone here has the right to be worried…"

Wincing, he said apologetically, “Yeah, I know, I—"

"It’s fine," she said lightly, touching his arm. She stood to look through the grocery bag, asking, “So what did you get?"

He leaned back in his chair. “Just some things I thought might help."

The look on her face went from laughing to confusion in about three seconds. “Ice cream and pickles?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Isn’t bizarre cravings a thing that happens when…you know?"

She snorted. “I’m pretty sure that’s a pregnancy thing. But I’ll take the ice cream, that’s for sure."

Nodding, Combeferre’s expression turned contemplative. “How long do your periods normally last?"

"Um, since I’m on birth control, not too long, maybe 4-5 days?"

He nodded again, gaze speculative, the same look he wore when planning anything. “You’re mentally scheduling all my future periods on your calendar, aren’t you?" Éponine groaned.

Combeferre smiled and pulled her into his lap, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “I am. And you know why? Because I want to know everything about you. I’ve learned so much in this past month alone, from the way you sleep to what kind of orange juice you like to the fact that you’d rather wear a pair of my boxers and a ratty tshirt than ‘real’ clothes. And there’s so much more to learn, to discover, and there’s no one I’d rather learn about than you. You fascinate me."

To Combeferre’s surprise, Éponine’s eyes filled with tears, and he said incredulously, “Are you  _crying_?"

"Fuck you, it’s hormones," she snapped. “Tell anyone about this and I will kill you and hide the body so that you can never be found."

From any one else, that might be an idle threat; from Éponine it was a guarantee, and Combeferre said weakly, “I promise I won’t."

She suddenly grinned and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Good. Now did you get me chocolate in addition to the pickles and ice cream?"

"Of course," he said, relieved at her mood change.

"Then you’re almost forgiven," she told him, standing up to rummage through the grocery bag once more.

He frowned. “Almost?"

"Yeah, almost." She put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “And you’re going to earn the rest of my forgiveness by giving me a foot massage as we hate-watch  _27 Dresses_  and binge on chocolate, capisce?"

"Ma’am, yes ma’am," he said obediently, following her into the living room.

She snuggled against him on the couch, and they were both silent until about five minutes in to the movie, when Éponine said, “Oh, it should go without saying, but tell anyone about this…"

"I know, I know," he sighed. “And you’ll kill me and they’ll never find my body."

"Exactly."

He grinned and pressed a kiss into her hair. “I love you," he said, meaning it perhaps more absolutely than ever before.

She elbowed him in the ribs, hard. “Fuck you, I’m trying to watch this."

It wasn’t until later that night as they both lay in bed, drifting off to sleep, that she murmured back, “I love you, too."

Combeferre fell asleep grinning.


	37. Prompt 34 - Enjolras having a panic attack (E/R)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it should just be assumed that anything I write with Enjolras is E/R. But anyway, **general trigger warnings for panic attack/anxiety**.

It was two o’clock in the morning and Enjolras groaned, blinking wearily as he sat back from his textbook. He was never going to memorize all of this in time for exam in two days. It was his own fault really, what he got for spending so much time planning last weekend’s protest. His grade was going to tank, but he could probably talk his professor into letting him do an extra credit assignment or something. If he had time for it, anyway, which given the current schedule he was operating on was unlikely.

He could feel the familiar anxiety over his forthcoming 80 hour work weeks bloom through his chest, and he swallowed it down, knowing that dwelling on it wasn’t going to help. This was what was required for the cause, and he would push through. He always did.

The anxiety didn’t recede, though, and he could feel the tingling starting in his hands, tingling that was a sign of what was to come. Sure enough, his breath seemed to catch in his throat and he gripped helplessly at the edge of his desk, trying very hard not to feel the terror that gripped his spine.

It had been several months since his last panic attack, when Combeferre had insisted he start seeing a doctor, when Enjolras had insisted that he was fine. And he hadn’t had any since, so he was fine.

Only at the moment he felt like he was going to die.

He grabbed his phone, half-dialing Combeferre’s number when he stopped, remembering in the very back of his mind that Combeferre had a class at 8 tomorrow. And though he knew Combeferre would want Enjolras to wake him, he wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t do that.

Courfeyrac was out for the night with Jehan which ruled him out. Enjolras swallowed convulsively, beginning to feel desperate. He needed someone up at this time of night, someone who could just talk to him, calm him down, walk him through this.

And then it hit him – Grantaire.

He had dialed the number before he had thought it through, before whatever part of his brain that wasn’t firing on all pistons at a non-existent threat could realize that of the qualifications of awake and calming, Grantaire only filled one.

As it turned it, he filled neither, since the phone rang four times before Grantaire answered sleepily, “Hello?”

Enjolras gripped his phone even tighter. “Fuck, you were asleep, I’m sorry,” he said as best he could considering it felt like a vice was gripping his chest.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, sounding more awake. “Is everything alright? What’s going on?”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Enjolras whispered in a rush, “No, everything’s not alright, I’m having a panic attack and I’m really sorry for calling you and waking you up, I just really, really needed to talk to someone.”

There was only the briefest of pauses before Grantaire said, in a soft, slow voice, “It’s alright. You were right to call me. What were you thinking about that started this?”

“I…it was stupid.”

Enjolras could almost hear Grantaire shake his head. “It wasn’t stupid. Talk me through it.”

And with that, Enjolras felt himself laying out everything, the things he had on his plate for the next month, how he hadn’t slept well in what seemed like forever, not that he slept well to begin with, how he was worried that their efforts weren’t making the impact they needed to, and how, at the moment, he just felt very, very alone.

Grantaire stayed with him the entire time, only interjecting to add a statement of understanding or to encourage Enjolras to continue. When the tide of words seemed stemmed, Grantaire said gently, “That’s a lot of things to be feeling right now. It’s ok to be a bit overwhelmed. Can you do something for me, though?”

Nodding even though Grantaire couldn’t see him, Enjolras murmured, “Yeah.”

“Take a nice, deep breath for me, ok? As deep as you can. Then let it out. Nice and slowly, just like that.” As difficult as it was for Enjolras to breathe around the knot of panic that was still snarled in his chest, he still tried, taking one shaky breath, than another. “C’mon, keep going. Another deep breath.”

Slowly, as Grantaire’s soft voice talked him through it, Enjolras felt the panic subside, his grip on the desk and his phone loosening. “How are you doing?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras managed a shaky smile.

“Better,” he told him, truthfully, clenching and unclenching his free hand to try and restore circulation. “Thank you.”

He could hear the smile in Grantaire’s voice as he responded lightly, “No problem.” Then there was a pause, and Grantaire asked, “Want to do me a favor, though?”

Enjolras leaned back in his chair, still taking deep breaths. “Anything.”

“Want to let me in?”

Surprised, Enjolras stood as quickly as his body would allow, padding to his apartment door to find Grantaire outside, leaning against the hallway wall, phone still pressed to his ear. He was wearing a pair of ratty pajama pants and an old, paint-stained t-shirt that was just a little too tight, and a pair of flip-flops that clearly did not belong with the ensemble. “You didn’t have to come over,” Enjolras said, brow wrinkling slightly as he hung up his phone.

Grantaire hung up his phone as well, smiling, though his eyes were serious. “Yeah. I did.”

“Well, come in,” said Enjolras quickly, holding the door open. Grantaire plopped down on Enjolras’s couch, ruffling his hair with one hand.

He looked up as Enjolras sat almost nervously on the armchair next to the couch. “So,” he began lightly, “do you do this often?”

A wry smile twisted on Enjolras’s lips. “Which part – calling someone at 2 in the morning because I’m having a panic attack, or the panic attack part?”

The smile faded slightly from Grantaire’s face. “A little bit of both, I suppose.”

Enjolras flushed slightly and looked down at his hands. “I…Not often, I wouldn’t say. Every now and again. They’re fine. It’s fine. It’s nothing I can’t handle, you know?”

“You weren’t doing a very good job of handling it tonight,” Grantaire pointed out levelly.

Enjolras raised his eyes to meet Grantaire’s. “No, I wasn’t.”

Grantaire bit his lip but didn’t look away. “Combeferre knows, I’m assuming? And Joly?”

“Of course. Both have recommended seeing a therapist.”

Snorting, Grantaire said quietly, “You should listen to your friends, Enjolras. They have your best interests at heart.”

Boldly, Enjolras countered, “You’re my friend. What would you recommend?”

Grantaire froze for a moment before forcing a chuckle and looking away. “I seek my therapy in the bottom of a bottle, Enj. You don’t want my advice.”

“Then why are you here?” The question wasn’t mean, simply curious, though Grantaire colored all the same.

He cleared his throat slightly. “I came to make sure you were ok. Which you clearly are. So I’ll just…I’ll just go.” Grantaire stood and started towards the door, but then stopped, an odd look on his face. “Why would you call me tonight? Why me, of all people you could have called?”

Enjolras was taken aback by the question, and before thinking he blurted, “You weren’t my first choice.”

The silence was almost unbearable, though it only lasted a few seconds. Then Grantaire snorted. “I’m never your first choice.”

He turned to leave, but Enjolras, recognizing his mistake, and maybe for the first time that evening putting two-and-two together on why he had decided so quickly on calling Grantaire, practically leapt up from the armchair, grabbing Grantaire’s arm before he could go. “Wait,” he said, voice soft, and a little troubled.

Grantaire paused, only half-turning, something unreadable in his eyes. “You weren’t my first choice,” Enjolras repeated without letting go of Grantaire’s arm, “but you were my best choice.” Tentatively, his hand slid down Grantaire’s arm to rest on his wrist, not quite holding Grantaire’s hand, but not quite  _not_ holding Grantaire’s hand either.

Swallowing hard, Grantaire’s eyes flickered down to Enjolras’s hand before back up to Enjolras’s eyes. “I think I can handle being your best choice,” he said, his voice husky, “even if I think it’s more like your biggest mistake.”

Enjolras wove his fingers firmly with Grantaire’s, reveling in their warmth, the ruddy skin seeming even darker against his own paleness. “Let me be the judge of my mistakes,” he said firmly. Then, biting his lip almost nervously, he asked, “Stay? Please?”

Grantaire swallowed again and let out a shaky breath. “If…if you’re sure.”

“Positive.” Enjolras’s voice had mostly recovered from his earlier attack, and it rang with his old conviction. “There is no one else I’d rather have here tonight.” As an almost afterthought, he added softly, “Or any night.”

Something like electricity almost sizzled between them until Grantaire closed the space between them, hesitant and questioning, lips just meeting Enjolras’s. As if in answer, Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire, his own lips hard, demanding, and Grantaire responded in kind.

Though they carried on for a few moments, Grantaire pulled away, a shy smile on his face. “Much as I would love to continue this all night, you need sleep.”

Enjolras wanted to argue with him, but a yawn forced its way from him and he shrugged, acquiescing. “Fine. Come to bed with me.”

“Are you sure?”

Enjolras looked at him, expression serious. “I am sure, Grantaire. I choose this; I choose you. Now c’mon.”

With that said, he tugged Grantaire towards the bedroom, and Grantaire, for whom it had never really been a choice at all, followed all too willingly.


	38. Prompt 35 - Courf/Jehan fighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel/continuation of the Courfeyrac cheating on Jehan [drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841398/chapters/1697879).

Courfeyrac could have run, could have stayed away from Jehan for the rest of his life, hopped a bus out of town, let the man draw his own conclusions. Or Courfeyrac could have lied, called him and apologized, said he’d had an emergency and beg off from seeing Jehan for a few days, when the hickies on his neck and the scratches on his back would fade.

But though Courfeyrac was a great many things, and many things not great, he was no coward. And though he hated the thought of the look on Jehan’s face, of the hurt, the betrayal, and whatever else, the fact remained that he had to face the music, to own up to it. No matter how his own heart was breaking at the thought, he knew Jehan’s would break even worse, that it was his fault, and that he had to try to put it right.

Though he knew it was foolish, a gesture sure to be wasted, he stopped to get flowers, some small token of how sorry he was. Of course, he couldn’t remember which flowers stood for apology (Jehan had explained flowers’ meanings to him once, as they cuddled on the couch, but Jehan had been wearing a t-shirt just on this side of too tight, and Courfeyrac paid far more attention to the movement of Jehan’s muscles under the thin cotton than the words coming from Jehan’s mouth).

Then Courfeyrac finally found himself outside Jehan’s apartment, hand poised to knock on the door. He took a deep breath, and then did so. Jehan opened the door, unsmiling, his eyes dark. “Courfeyrac.”

“Um, hi,” said Courfeyrac awkwardly, thrusting the flowers at Jehan. “Um, these are for you.”

Jehan didn’t take them, arms crossed in front of his chest, and Courfeyrac lowered the flowers, swallowing hard. “Come in,” said Jehan, stepping back from the doorway.

Courfeyrac bit his lip and went inside. “Look,” he said, voice suddenly rough with nerves, “about last night—”

“Don’t.” Jehan held up one hand. “I already know.” He almost smiled, though it looked more like a grimace. “You must think I’m stupid, like I wouldn’t realize. When you didn’t come home, when you didn’t call…you slept with someone, didn’t you?”

Looking down, Courfeyrac muttered, “I…I can’t deny that. But, but let me explain—”

Out of nowhere, Jehan’s fist crashed into Courfeyrac’s jaw, sending him spinning to the floor. “You _fucking_  bastard,” Jehan shouted, tears shining in his eyes. “You have the nerve to not only cheat on me but to come over here and try and  _defend_  yourself to me?”

Courfeyrac didn’t say a word, just looking up at him from his position on the floor, one hand massaging his jaw. Jehan sank onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot,” he whispered, heels of his hands pressed against his eyes as if to try and stem the tears. “They warned me, they all warned me, but I didn’t listen.”

Courfeyrac shifted uncomfortably, torn between wanting to stand and run over to Jehan, to hold him in his arms, to stroke his back and pet his hair, and wanting to not get punched again. “I didn’t…I wasn’t…” he mumbled, trying to find something, anything to say.

Jehan ignored him. “Everyone told me you would cheat on me. ‘Courf’s a flirt,’ they all. Fucking. Said.” He bit his lip. “I thought…fuck, I don’t know what I thought. That I was  _different_ , maybe? That I was fucking  _special_  to you?” He chuckled dryly. “God, I thought wrong.”

Slowly making his way to his feet, Courfeyrac said pleadingly, “You were special, Jehan. You still are. I fucked up, I know that, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

“I feel like I’ve spent every day of the past few months waiting for this moment,” said Jehan hollowly. “Waiting for my worst nightmare to come true. I used to lose sleep wondering when the other shoe would drop, when you would treat me like every single other person you’ve been with, convincing myself that you would leave me, that I shouldn’t get attached. But you didn’t. And you let me believe, just for a moment, that you had changed.” He broke off, eyes wet. “You didn’t change. You’ll never change. And I guess it’s high time I learned that lesson.”

Courfeyrac swallowed, hard. “Don’t…don’t talk like that. I can change. I will change, I promise.” He took a tentative step towards Jehan, freezing when Jehan’s fist clenched at his side. “I want to try and make this work. To try and fix this. Please, Jehan…” The begging had never been more evident in Courfeyrac’s voice.

Jehan looked at him with cold eyes. “Make what work?” he asked bitterly. “There’s nothing here to make work, nothing here to fix. You never even loved me.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened and he protested, “That’s not true—”

“No.” Jehan’s voice was frigid, every muscle in his body tense as he glared at Courfeyrac. “No. You don’t get to stand there and tell me that you love me and tell me that you’re sorry because you’re  _not_. You don’t do something like this to someone you love, Courf.” His lip curled in disdain as Courfeyrac just stared at him, tears flowing freely. “Stop. You’re ugly when you cry and I’m sure you’ve got another bed to fall into with the first person you come across.”

Recoiling as if slapped, Courfeyrac’s eyes blazed for a moment before he swallowed hard. “You may not believe this now,” he said, voice low but heated, “but I love you more than I have ever loved another person. And if I have to spend my whole life trying to atone for this, I will, because you are the love of my life.”

Jehan grinned, something savage glinting off his features. “No. I’m just the best piece of ass you’ll never have again.” He looked at Courfeyrac for a long moment, then said quietly, “Now get the fuck out of my apartment.”

Courfeyrac nodded, just once, a jerky movement of his head and turned to go. At the doorway, he paused, looking back at Jehan and whispering, “Jehan…”

“Leave.” There was no mercy in Jehan’s voice, nothing but unflinching and unrepentant fury.

And whatever Courfeyrac had wanted to say died in his throat. He left, closing the door gently, almost reverently behind him, and Jehan stared at the door for just a moment longer, then reached out to support himself against the wall, chest heaving.

He didn’t cry. He  _wouldn’t_  let himself cry, not another tear. He wasn’t going to mourn; there was nothing to mourn, just a lie, an illusion. When the magic trick was revealed to the audience, the only thing lost was naïveté. Even so, his fingers curled into fists, fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms, hard enough that if he wanted to he could have made himself bleed.

But he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t let this break him. Courfeyrac might think that Jehan was weak enough to crumble, to give in, to let him back into his life. Jehan was far, far stronger than that.

Courfeyrac might think that his biggest mistake was in sleeping with that girl, but he would be wrong. His biggest mistake was underestimating Jehan’s resolve.

Jean Prouvaire did not forgive. Jean Prouvaire did not forget. Jean Prouvaire was a writer, and with his words he would remind himself of how he felt in this very moment, fire burning through his veins, a hollow yet piercing pain in his heart, salty tear tracks still glistening on his cheeks.

And he would never allow Courfeyrac the opportunity to make him feel this way again.


	39. Prompt 36 - Feuilly/Bahorel Fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way, wayyyy back on Chapter 17 of this whole mess, Liza requested Feuilly/Bahorel fluff. And I...Well, I tried my hardest to deliver.
> 
> This was literally my first time writing Feuilly/Bahorel, so, you know, be gentle.

If you were to ask Bahorel and Feuilly when they first got together, they would look at each other and shrug. It hadn’t necessarily been a conscious decision, the kind of thing that they sat down and discussed with each other, talking about their feelings for each other.

They didn’t talk much in general about that kind of stuff (“that kind of bullshit,” Bahorel would snort as Feuilly rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement). Really, talking wasn’t their go-to mode of communication as a whole. They spoke more through touches, through glances, and through the comfortable silences that accompanied years of friendship turned into much more.

If you had still pressured them to give a definitive starting point, it would be a few months after they became roommates, when Feuilly came home from art class with a sore shoulder from trying to do something with a sculpture that he probably shouldn’t have. He grunted at Bahorel and pulled off his t-shirt, rubbing at his shoulder as he plopped down on the couch. Bahorel, who of course had experience with sore muscles, wordlessly sat down next to him, turning him to face away and then using his deft, strong fingers to work at the kink in Feuilly’s shoulder.

Feuilly groaned appreciatively as Bahorel’s fingers dug deeper into the knot, his head tilted to one side to allow Bahorel easier access, exposing the long line of his neck which, almost without meaning to, almost without thinking, Bahorel leaned down and kissed.

They both froze in realization, and Bahorel quickly scooted back away from Feuilly, who couldn’t seem to decide whether to turn around and look at him or pretend it hadn’t happened. He settled for half-turning, keeping his features carefully curious, nothing more, as he looked questioningly at Bahorel. Bahorel’s face was blank, and he jerked a half-shrug.

More hesitant than anytime they had ever been in each other’s presence, Feuilly reached over, cupping Bahorel’s cheek with a freckled hand, eyes questioning as he leaned in to place a careful kiss on Bahorel’s lips.

That was all it took. Bahorel fisted one hand in Feuilly’s hair, pulling him closer as the other hand slid down Feuilly’s ribcage to rest possessively on his hip. Feuilly opened his mouth eagerly against Bahorel’s, all tongue and teeth and insistent pressure as his hands dropped to tug Bahorel’s shirt up. Bahorel caught one of his hands halfway up and whispered, breathing ragged, “Are you sure?”

Feuilly rolled his eyes and growled, “Shut the fuck up.”

It became a thing, as much as this could become a thing. Whether they were dating or just fucking, it didn’t make much difference on how they treated each other. They didn’t say that they were an item; they didn’t say that they were exclusive.

And yet they did. Every hickey on both their necks and purple-blue bruises left on the other’s hips screamed “mine” just as much as the absent-minded way that Bahorel’s fingers would wind up tickling up the back of Feuilly’s neck as they sat next to each other at Les Amis meetings or the way Feuilly would rest his head against the curve of Bahorel’s shoulder. And of course there was the simple fact that they stopped dating other people, started leaving the bar together.

In some ways, it was simpler than anything they had ever done before, since they already knew they fit so well together. On the other hand, this made the fights and the tense silences that followed far, far worse. But then again, these were so often solved by a kiss, by knuckles brushing lovingly along the other’s cheekbone, even by a quiet huffed sigh that to them sounded an awful lot like an apology.

Their friends learned to stop asking what was going on between them, though some days, when Bahorel would absently press a kiss to Feuilly’s temple, or Feuilly would lace his fingers with Bahorel’s, Jehan would still sigh happily and refuse to tell anyone why he was grinning like an idiot. And Combeferre made sure to sit them both down and tell them, while polishing his glasses nervously, “If this becomes a problem…” (to which Feuilly and Bahorel rolled their eyes in unison and looked pointedly at where Grantaire was blithely talking about the merits of free market capitalism while Enjolras’s face was getting progressively redder. Combeferre cleared his throat and muttered, “Point taken”).

So they were together. Maybe. Ish. They had never discussed it. They had never needed to.

And if you asked them what they thought of the other, Bahorel’s mouth would curve in a slow, almost lazy grin, and he would half-shrug and say, “He’s ok, I guess.” And Feuilly would punch him hard enough in the ribcage to make him wince and say sourly, “He’s a fucking bastard.”

So maybe it wasn’t hand-holding and sweet kisses and whispered nothings. But in its own way, it was love just the same.

They’d just never tell you that.


	40. Prompt 37 - E/R discussing former love lives

“We need to talk.” Grantaire’s voice was quiet, a little nervous, matching the way his fingers trembled slightly as he traced them up Enjolras’s spine.

Grantaire could tell that Enjolras was smiling even without being able to see his face, since his own was pressed into the nape of Enjolras’s neck as they lay together on Enjolras’s bed. “That doesn’t sound good. Should I be worried?”

“That depends,” Grantaire grinned against the taut skin of Enjolras’s neck. “Have you been hiding anything from me?”

The muscles of Enjolras’s bare shoulders shifted and tensed as he frowned. “No, I’m pretty sure I haven’t. I’ve been kind of an open book with you, you know that.”

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire muttered, “Oh yes, I know quite a bit about you, from your political affiliations to your irrational love for Taylor Swift to how much you hate your father to that particular keening noise you make when I stick my finger—”

“Yeah I got it,” Enjolras interrupted, the blush spreading down his neck, making Grantaire grin and press a gentle kiss against the redness. “Did you have somewhere you were going with this?”

Grantaire bit his lip. “How many people have you slept with?”

Enjolras rolled over, dislodging Grantaire from his position along Enjolras’s back. “Are you going to explain to me what’s going on, or am I just supposed to guess what you’re thinking in that brain of yours?”

Taking a deep breath, Grantaire said quickly, “I just want to know how many people you’ve had sex with. I’m just…I’m just curious.”

Though Enjolras frowned, his brow furrowed in that way that made Grantaire want to kiss the wrinkles, he didn’t really look angry, more contemplative. And understandably so – this thing between them, the thing they had only quantified two days before as boyfriends (and so tentatively at that, Grantaire terrified of ruining what had so recently happened between them, this relationship – he shuddered at the word, reading it as a death sentence – that made him happier than he had ever been, while Enjolras feared hurting Grantaire, worse than he already had long before they had gotten together). Since they had started sleeping together – fucking, really; sleeping together had different connotations that wouldn’t come until a month after they started this thing – they had been astoundingly honest with each other, which was one of Enjolras’s conditions.

It had still taken two months for them to admit that what existed between them was more than either sleeping together or fucking, that there was a complicated, complex mess of emotions that webbed between them. It was a mess of emotions best expressed as gentle kisses peppered on Grantaire’s cheeks to make him blush, or in the way Grantaire would wrap his arms around Enjolras’s waist from behind, nestling his head in between Enjolras’s shoulder blades until Enjolras stopped whatever he was doing and turned around to kiss Grantaire. It was a mess of emotions that maybe, just maybe, could be described as love, but at the very least could be described as an insatiable desire to devour every little detail about the other.

Including, apparently, how many people Enjolras had slept with.

Enjolras’s frown relaxed slightly, and he dropped a soft kiss along Grantaire’s jaw, just nipping at it, enough to make Grantaire’s eyelids flutter and a small, satisfied smile flit across his face. “Four,” he said, his voice mostly a rumble as he dragged his lips from Grantaire’s jaw down to his neck. “I’ve slept with four people.”

“Ah.” Grantaire’s eyes were half-closed in appreciation of the new hickey Enjolras was sucking alongside his jugular, but he bit his lip again. “Who?”

Enjolras pulled back, frowning again. “Why do you need to know that?”

“I…I just….” A whirl of emotions flashed across Grantaire’s face before it settled on a bizarre mix of worry, nerves, and…jealousy? “You know how long I’ve…I’ve wanted you. Wanted this. And I just wondered who…”

“Who I was with before you?” Enjolras finished, half-smiling, his eyes soft. “I can understand that particular urge, Taire, I promise that, but I don’t see how it will help you…”

Grantaire frowned, trying to put to words what he was feeling. “I…it will help me understand why…why me.”

Enjolras’s eyes tightened; the question of ‘why me’ was one that had haunted the beginning of their relationship, had almost derailed their relationship entirely, and while Enjolras had thought – had hoped – that Grantaire was over it, he knew better than to say anything to that effect. Finally, he huffed a sigh. “Fine. But you have to promise not to kill any of them, or worse, try and compare yourself to any of them.”

“Promise,” said Grantaire solemnly.

Frowning slightly in concentration, Enjolras said slowly, “Well, there was Mary, my high school girlfriend. I was 16. It was  _terrible_. Because, you know, I was gay and in denial, and had no idea what I was doing and was nervous as hell. I don’t even think I came, I lost my boner like a minute into it.”

“Does that even count?” Grantaire chortled, stopping when Enjolras glared at him.

“If you interrupt me…”

Grantaire mimed zipping his mouth and Enjolras sighed again before continuing. “Then when I was in college I kind of dated this guy Steve, a real straight-laced guy, so we both kept it really quiet, and we only had sex maybe a handful of times? He was a nice enough guy, we just didn’t have a lot of chemistry. He was a little too goody-two-shoes for me. But after we broke up he started dating this other guy we knew, Tony, and that worked out really well for him. And then there was Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire froze, and despite his promise not to interrupt, he said in a strangled voice, “Courfeyrac?”

"Yeah Courf thought I was lonely and offered to sleep with me, so we did, just the once and it was…whatever, I mean, it was Courfeyrac, so—" Enjolras stopped when he saw the look on Grantaire’s face. “Courfeyrac? Not you, too…"

Grantaire just nodded. “Uh, yeah. Way back when. Before I first joined Les Amis. He and I met in a bar and it was just one night, but, uh…yeah."

They looked at each other for a long moment, a slight blush on both their cheeks. Then Grantaire asked, cautiously, “Did you find…I mean…"

"Yeah?" asked Enjolras, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

Grantaire flushed. “When you…and Courf…did you find that…well…that he wasn’t as good as he claims to be?"

Enjolras just stared at Grantaire for a second, then burst into laughter. “He really wasn’t as good as he claims, was he?" Enjolras practically cackled.

"Oh my god, thank you!" laughed Grantaire. “He did this  _thing_  with his tongue that I think he thought felt good but I was like, ‘Or let’s never do that again.’"

Laughing aloud, Enjolras pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. “Thank you for saying that; I completely agree. Thank God you don’t do that.” He shuddered dramatically.

Grantaire grinned. “Well, at least Marius likes that tongue thing – or so I’ve heard.”

Enjolras frowned. “Marius? What happened to Jehan?”

Giving Enjolras a look, Grantaire said darkly, “Don’t ask.” Then he paused and asked softly, “So who was number 4?”

Enjolras poked him in the ribs. “You, you idiot.”

“Oh, right,” said Grantaire, flushing pleasurably at that thought. Grinning, he heaved himself into a sitting position. “Well alright then. My curiosity is satisfied.” He pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s forehead in silent thanks before standing and stretching, heading to the dresser to rummage up some clothes.

“So who have you slept with?” asked Enjolras boldly, propping himself up on his elbows as he watched Grantaire tug on a pair of Enjolras’s boxers.

Grantaire just threw a grin over his shoulder and waggled his hips suggestively as he pulled the boxers up to rest just under his hipbones. “That’s a good question. How much time do you have?”

Enjolras couldn’t help but pout. “That’s not fair,” he pointed out, trying not to sound petulant. “I told you.”

“Yeah, but my list is a helluva lot longer,” replied Grantaire casually. Then his grin turned from devilish to loving and he climbed back on bed to straddle Enjolras, pressing a long, hard kiss to his lips. “I’ve been with a lot of guys,” he said, truthfully, their faces just inches apart, “and a lot of girls, too. I can’t deny that – I won’t deny that. But I’ve only slept with one guy who mattered.”

Smiling, Enjolras said, softly, “Me.”

“No. Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras practically growled as he shoved Grantaire off of him, scowling. “Oh c’mon,” Grantaire laughed, reaching out to pull Enjolras back to him. “You gotta admit it was a little funny.”

“You’re an asshole,” Enjolras informed him, but he allowed Grantaire to kiss him all the same.

Grantaire pulled Enjolras onto his lap, kissing him gently. “You are the only person I have slept with who matters, I promise you that. Because you’re the only person I’ve slept with who I love.”

Enjolras froze, just slightly, his eyes wide. “Love?” he questioned in a quiet voice.

Without looking away, Grantaire nodded, expression serious. “Yeah. Love.”

“Good,” Enjolras informed him, a grin spreading across his face as he ran his hand through Grantaire’s unruly curls. “Because I’ve only slept with one guy I love as well.”

Grantaire swallowed, hard, and said threateningly in a breathless voice, “If you fucking say Courfeyrac, I swear to God, Enj…”

Enjolras laughed and kissed Grantaire. “Tempting. But no. Just you. You’re the only one I’ve loved, the only one I love.”

“Good,” said Grantaire, grinning wildly. Then he swatted Enjolras’s ass and said sternly, “Now put some clothes on. You’re the only person I intend on sleeping with for a long ass time, and I’d really rather not get bored of seeing you naked.”

Though he stood and walked obediently to grab a pair of boxers, Enjolras just laughed. “Yeah, like you could ever get tired of seeing this naked.”

Grantaire sighed mournfully. “No, I don’t think I ever could.” He grinned at Enjolras. “But hey, good thing I never have to.”


	41. Prompt 38 - Combeferre/Joly Doctor Fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another pairing I've never written, and this one was less successful. Thankfully I have another Combeferre/Joly prompt with which to try again.

Joly stood excitedly with his fellow third year medical students, waiting for the official White Coat Ceremony to begin. At this ceremony, he and his fellow students would officially don the white coats that signified practicing medicine, which had always been Joly’s dream. They would also recite the Hippocratic oath, vowing to care for the sick and, perhaps most importantly, to abstain from doing harm and playing God.

For a medical student, the ceremony signified transitioning from the classroom to clinical work, actually getting to work with patients, for which Joly was equal parts excited and nervous.

As he waited, he scanned the audience for Les Amis, not really expecting for any of them to be there. He had half-heartedly brought it up at last week’s meeting, just casually mentioning it, but he knew it wasn’t a good time for most of them. Enjolras was in the midst of planning some kind of riot or protest for next week, while Courfeyrac was up to his eyeballs in studying for his last semester finals at law school. Grantaire was…doing whatever it is Grantaire did, as was Bahorel and Bossuet, Feuilly was working, and Jehan and Combeferre were in the middle of getting their dissertation outlines approved by their respective committees.

Needless to say, he was surprised to see the familiar glint from Combeferre’s glasses as he looked out across the crowd, and Joly raised his hand in questioning greeting. Combeferre grinned broadly and raised his own hand in reply.

Then the ceremony started, and Joly quickly dragged his attention away from thoughts of Combeferre to focus on being able to repeat the words of the most important oath he would ever make in his life.

“ _Apollo Physciain and Asclepius and Hygieia and Panacea and all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will fulfill according to my ability and judgment this oath and covenant…_ ”

Once the ceremony was over, Joly went to find Combeferre, who was standing by himself, hands in his pockets as he looked around awkwardly. “Ferre!” Joly called, pushing his way through the crowd, face flushed from excitement. “Thanks for coming. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” replied Combeferre easily, flashing him a happy smile. He inclined his head slightly and said with a slightly more serious tone, “Dr. Joly.”

Joly frowned. “Not doctor, not yet,” he protested, hands automatically smoothing over the front of his new white coat. “Still just a student. I’ve got at least three more years before I receive my MD.”

Combeferre surprised Joly by reaching out to still his hands, grabbing his wrists to stop their fluttering motion. “You just recited the Hippocratic Oath. In my book, with the connotations that oath brings with it, you’re as much of a doctor as you’ll ever be. The rest is just specialized knowledge and practice. But this, today? Vowing your life to uphold an oath to serve the sick and those in need? That’s what makes you a doctor, Joly.”

Swallowing, Joly could feel himself blush, and he looked away. “I…I mean…thanks, I…well, the American Medical Association would probably disagree with you…”

“I don’t particularly care what they think,” replied Combeferre, grinning again.

Joly half-smiled. “Yeah, _you_ wouldn’t. I’ve got different concerns than that.” He looked down at where Combeferre hands were still lightly wrapped around his wrists and blushed slightly, opening his mouth to say something when a voice called his name. Joly looked over the crowd and saw one of his classmates waving at him. “Oh, Ferre, I gotta go do something really quickly—”

Combeferre let go of Joly’s wrists. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “I won’t keep you. Just—” He hesitated for just a moment before leaning in and kissing Joly’s cheek. “Congratulations, Dr. Joly.”

Joly stared at him, forgetting how to breathe, or talk, or function, really, watching as Combeferre walked away into the crowd. He forgot he was supposed to talk to his classmate, forgot about everything except the feel of Combeferre’s lips brushing against his cheek.

* * *

 

Combeferre was not nervous. He had waited and worked far too long and far too hard for this moment, to finally receive what he had earned after five grueling years, his _philosophiae doctor_ , the right to put “doctor” in front of his name and “Ph.D” after it. Most importantly, it meant his dissertation was done, presented and approved, ready for publication, and he had already been accepted for a professorship teaching history at a local university.

He was ecstatic.

All of Les Amis were there, even Jehan, who had only been a little bitter that he hadn’t finished in five years, had needed to secure sixth year funding, but Combeferre had listened to him bitch enough (and bought him enough beer to see him through it) that he had forgiven Combeferre and showed up. Joly was also there, and Combeferre swallowed hard at the thought.

He had thought…

Well, it didn’t matter what he had thought. He had made an effort, two years ago, at Joly’s White Coat Ceremony, had put himself out there, made the first move, whatever you wanted to call it. And Joly had made no attempt to reciprocate. So despite the chemistry between them, despite the feelings that Combeferre had harbored mostly secretly for years, nothing had happened between them.

And Combeferre was fine with that. Truly.

Fine enough that when he met up with Les Amis after the ceremony, he shook Joly’s hand in a friendly way, smiling his thanks as Joly congratulated him.

Fine enough that he glared at Enjolras as Enjolras casually herded their friends away to give them a moment alone. He didn’t need alone time with Joly, didn’t want alone time with Joly, especially with the way Joly looked suddenly nervous.

“Congratulations,” said Joly again, his cheeks tinged pink.

Combeferre couldn’t help but smile at him. “Thank you,” he said pleasantly. “It’s nice to finally be done.”

“I can only imagine,” said Joly dryly, since he still at least another year left.

Which reminded Combeferre… “I thought you had rounds today and couldn’t make it?”

To Combeferre’s surprise, Joly blushed even deeper. “I…I did. I switched with someone.”

Combeferre frowned. “Why would you do that? I know you need so many hours for your rotation – you shouldn’t have done that.”

“I wanted to,” said Joly, a little insistently, eyes meeting Combeferre’s, something steely in them that Combeferre hadn’t seen before. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

If Combeferre recognized his own words being returned to him, he didn’t show it, though his frown deepened slightly. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then seemed to think better of it, looking down. After a long silence, he asked quietly, “Why are you really here, Joly?”

Joly looked a little surprised by the question. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“I just thought…after what happened…” Combeferre didn’t finish the sentence, but Joly understood.

He bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth, running a hand through his unruly hair as if trying to word something properly. “I didn’t…I wasn’t sure how I felt, two years ago. And I should have, well, I should have let you know sooner, I know, but I wanted the time to be right, and you were so busy and stressed all the time, trying to finish in five years, and I was busy too with clinicals and with everything, and—”

Combeferre interrupted his rambling. “What are you trying to say?”

“I…I like you,” said Joly softly, blushing an even brighter shade of pink. “I mean…whatever. I have feelings for you. I have for awhile.”

Staring at him, Combeferre asked quietly, “For how long?”

If possible, Joly blushed even darker. “Um, pretty much sense you kissed me on my cheek?” When Combeferre frowned, Joly quickly said, “Like I said, I wanted to tell you, but there just never seemed to be a good time, and I…I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” asked Combeferre in a strangled voice. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Come here.” He pulled Joly to him, kissing him gently on the lips, and Joly sighed against him, reciprocating as he wrapped his arms around Combeferre.

They ignored the whoops from Courfeyrac and Bahorel, since Les Amis, despite Enjolras’s best attempts, had witnessed pretty much the entire thing. Combeferre leaned back and grinned. “Good thing for you that I seem to have a thing for doctors,” he informed Joly, who returned his grin with a warm, almost shy smile.

“Good thing for you that I appear to as well, Doctor.”

* * *

 

A year later, Joly was made a proper medical doctor.

And though Combeferre had told him three years previously that Joly was already a doctor to him, no one clapped louder than Joly’s professor boyfriend.

When the ceremony was over, Combeferre pulled Joly to him, kissing him slowly and deeply, before leaning back just far enough to say, with a grin, “Doctor Joly.”

“Doctor Combeferre,” Joly returned, grabbing Combeferre’s tie to pull him in for another kiss. Then he laced his hand with Combeferre’s. “Ready to go home, Doctor?”

Laughing out loud, Combeferre squeezed Joly’s hand. “Are you kidding me? After you just graduated? We’re going out to a bar with everyone and getting ridiculously drunk.”

Joly frowned, though only slightly. “That’s probably not healthy,” he half-heartedly protested, letting Combeferre pull him toward the door.

Combeferre pressed a kiss against his temple. “Haven’t you heard?” he whispered in Joly’s ear. “We’ve got a doctor in our group of friends now. I think we’ll all be fine.”


	42. Prompt 39 - Courf/Jehan Sexting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Rated M for brief NSFW content**. Nothing too bad, really, since as we know I don't write smut, but.

The phone on the corner of Courfeyrac’s desk buzzed, and with only a passing guilty look at his professor, who continued droning on without noticing the interruption, Courfeyrac grabbed his phone and read the text.

It was from Jehan, and all it read was:  **I’m bored :(**

Rolling his eyes, Courfeyrac quickly fired back:  **I’m in class.**

It took only a few seconds for Jehan to respond.  **Right, which means you should be just as bored as me. Skip class and come join me.**

**I can’t** , Courfeyrac replied.  **I’m taking notes for Enjolras. He’d be pissed at me if I left.**

Courfeyrac was taking notes for Enjolras, and he undoubtedly would be mad if Courf took off – ignoring the fact that the reason Enjolras was missing class was because he was in jail. Again. What was supposed to be a peaceful protest on Sunday had turned into a bit of a riot, and the police had decided to keep Enjolras for twenty-four hours. They had arrested Grantaire as well (although Courfeyrac was 98% sure that Grantaire had convinced the police officer to arrest him - Grantaire was on good terms with the police, and Courfeyrac was pretty sure Grataire just wanted the alone time with Enjolras; either way, he wasn’t going to ask).

It took longer for the reply from Jehan, and Courfeyrac half-heartedly attempted to return his attention to class. When his phone buzzed again, he tried to ignore it, but when it went off twice more, he reluctantly picked it up, and promptly almost passed out.

The first text was a simple,  **Boo :(** , but the second was clearly a picture of Jehan’s half-hard dick, hand wrapped around the base, followed by a text that read,  **See what you’re missing? ;)**

Courfeyrac let out a sound that would have been a whimpered groan were his teeth not firmly clenched, and he quickly made sure his phone was hidden from view as he responded,  **The fuck?? R u trying to kill me???**

**Maybe. You’re no longer using full words so I consider my plan working. Are you as hard as I am? ;)**

A muscle twitched in Courf’s jaw, matched by a most unfortunate twitching from inside his pants, and he hastily crossed his legs in what he hoped was mostly an inconspicuous gesture.  **Fuck u** , he sent back, hoping he wasn’t blushing too deeply.

If he wasn’t before, he definitely was after Jehan’s next text.  **Works for me! I really REALLY want you to ;)**

Courfeyrac bit his lip, mentally cursing Enjolras for the rest of eternity. If it weren’t for him being an idiot, and for Courfeyrac promising to take notes for him, he could easily be with Jehan right now, where hopefully they could mutually take care of what was very quickly becoming a rather obvious problem in Courf’s pants.  **i want 2 babe but I’m stuck in class.**

**Darn** , Jehan replied, and Courfeyrac could practically hear him sigh.  **Guess I’ll just have to get started without you…**

And for the next ten minutes, Courfeyrac’s phone buzzed almost constantly as Jehan texted him increasingly graphic descriptions of what he was doing to himself, what he was fantasizing about, and what he wished Courfeyrac was doing to him. Courfeyrac, for his part, grew increasingly red-faced, and it became harder and harder – pun absolutely and rather unfortunately intended – to sit in class.

Enjolras was going to kill him. He hadn’t written a single thing down in his notes since the texts started. And there was still another thirty minutes of class.

Of course, he rationalized as his phone buzzed again, if he wasn’t taking any notes anyway, what would it hurt if he were to leave early? The end result would be the same, Enjolras would still be pissed at him, but at least he might be able to get something worthwhile out of it.

His decision was made, and so he stood, holding his stuff awkwardly in front of him, thinking desperately of dead kittens and his grandparents fucking in an attempt to at least partially soften his boner (which was easier said than done).

Thankfully, by the time he got outside, he was mostly able to walk, and took off at a jog towards Jehan’s, not wanting to miss another minute of witnessing in person what Jehan had been texting him.

He practically sprinted past the coffeeshop they all normally hung out at, then stopped dead in his tracks, realizing that he had seen an awfully familiar face sitting at one of the outside tables…

He turned around and jogged back, searching the people until he saw what he was looking for, and he ran over to the table, skidding to halt, gasping for breath as he stared at Jehan, who was sitting calmly at one of the outdoors café tables, sipping an iced coffee, phone on the table in front of him. “Jehan?" Courfeyrac wheezed.

Jehan at least managed to look a little guilty. “Courf! Uh, what are you doing here?"

Glowering, Courfeyrac snapped, “I was on my way to my boyfriend’s, where he was supposedly jacking off without me."

People at the other tables glanced over and Courfeyrac blushed slightly. Jehan bit his lip, trying to stifle a laugh. “Um, about that - I mean, I didn’t think you’d actually  _leave_  class, not at the risk of pissing off Enjolras…"

"So, all the stuff you were texting me…you were making it up?" Courfeyrac looked torn between being angry and being crestfallen at the thought. “But…but what about the pictures?”

Jehan still looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “I took them awhile ago. Like I said, I was bored.”

Courfeyrac stared at him. “You’re a terrible person.”

Smirking, Jehan took another sip of his coffee. “Pretty much,” he agreed cheerfully. “But if you wait for me to finish my coffee, we now seem to have to some free time on our hands, and I can think of  _several_  things I’ve promised to let you do to me…”

Courfeyrac’s eyes darkened and his bit his lip. “Do you  _have_  to finish your coffee?”

Jehan laughed out loud. “Are you  _that_  desperate—” he started, but Courfeyrac cut him off by grabbing him and pulling him into a hard, biting kiss. When Courfeyrac had released him, Jehan sank back into his seat, pleasantly pink, and it took a moment for him to find his voice. “Do you know, I think I’ve had enough coffee for right now.”

“Good,” said Courfeyrac grimly, grabbing his hand to haul him up. “Because one minute more and I really was going to go back to your place and start without you.”

Grinning, Jehan teased, “I should really do this more often,” squeezing Courfeyrac’s ass playfully.

The look Courfeyrac gave him would have been frightening were it not for the twinkle in his eyes and the way he pulled Jehan close to him. “You should do this more often,” Courfeyrac agreed. “You should just  _not_  do it on days when I’ve promised to take notes for Enjolras.”

“Mm, I forgot about Enjolras,” said Jehan with a smile, putting his arms around Courfeyrac’s neck and kissing him sweetly. “He’s going to be pissed at you, isn’t he?”

“Let him,” muttered Courfeyrac into Jehan’s neck. “He’s the idiot who got arrested, and he can just get the notes from the professor. Fuck him.”

Jehan chuckled. “Pretty sure Grantaire already did that.”

Courfeyrac just groaned. “I really don’t want to think about that.”

“Oh?” said Jehan innocently, though his smile was wicked. “And what do you want to think about?”

Now it was Courfeyrac’s turn to grin wickedly. “The twenty-second text you sent me,” he said, leaning in to add, “and if we get back to yours in the next five minutes, we’re gonna do a hell of a lot more than just think about it.”

Jehan licked his lips, pupils blown at the very thought. “Well then what the hell are you waiting for?” he breathed. “Let’s get back to my place.”

Courfeyrac grinned. “I’m right behind you.”

Jehan turned to wink at him over his shoulder. “Yeah you will be.”

Groaning, Courfeyrac said, “Ha ha, very punny.”

“Oh, that wasn’t a pun,” said Jehan, grinning. “That was a prediction of ten minutes from now. Or at least, so I hope.”

“I think that can be arranged,” whispered Courfeyrac in Jehan’s ear. “Now enough with the talking. You have a lot of promises to uphold.”

"And I very much look forward to doing so," Jehan practically purred, laughing as Courfeyrac tugged him eagerly towards his apartment.


	43. Prompt 40 - Combeferre/Jehan studying

It was hot. It was more than hot – it was  _roasting_ , and even though Combeferre’s air conditioning was going full blast, and as it was the weekend, it was just one of those days where he wanted nothing more than to sit and do nothing.

Which was what he had intended, had in fact  _not_  intended to put a shirt on, let alone real pants, were it not for Jehan.

Combeferre was many things, but one of those things was private. He admitted to occasionally strolling around his apartment in his boxers, when he was getting up in the morning to get a cup of coffee, or something like that, but for the most part, he did not flaunt anything about himself. It didn’t help that his natural posture was half-hunched with a bookbag full of heavy textbooks slung over one shoulder, wearing clothes that, though clean, crisp, and well-pressed, were nonetheless about ten years out of date, with his glasses sliding halfway down his nose. He was no Bahorel, whose natural state appeared to be sans shirt, or Courfeyrac, who had a habit of losing his shirt halfway through the night when they were out at the bars (including on one memorable occasion when he swapped his t-shirt for some girl’s bustier). Even Enjolras was known to divest of a few items of clothing when situation demanded it (last year’s Pride parade, for instance, when Grantaire had painstakingly painted his entire torso in a rainbow).

But Combeferre…it wasn’t that he was shy, that was rather the wrong word for it. He just didn’t see any practical need to flaunt his body.

So when his doorbell rang, he sighed longingly before pulling on a t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts before answering the door. It was Jehan, who looked thoroughly miserable, drenched in sweat, clutching his books to him. “I’m so sorry,” Jehan said, “but my air conditioner broke, and you live closest to me…”

“It’s not a problem,” said Combeferre quickly. “Come on inside.”

Jehan followed him in, dumping his stuff on the coffee table and flopping down on the couch. “You’re a lifesaver,” he told Combeferre. “I was going to go to the café down the street from me, but their air conditioner is out too, so instead of trying to make it all the way to campus, I thought I’d try here first.”

Smiling slightly, Combeferre said, “It’s not a big deal, really.” He nodded towards the books in front of Jehan. “What’s with those?”

Jehan gave the books a withering look and groaned. “I got a note from my dissertation advisor. There’s a problem with the third chapter.”

“Oh?” said Combeferre, genuinely interested as he sat down on the couch next to Jehan. “What’s the problem?”

Running a frustrated hand through his hair, Jehan glared at the books once more before switching his gaze to Combeferre. “Well, for that part of my dissertation, I’m writing on corporeal representation within poetic structures, right? And my dissertation advisor thinks that I’m not focusing enough on the poetry of the body, whatever that means. So I checked out these books from the library in hopes that they would help, but I appear to be drawing a blank.”

Combeferre frowned. This was not his area of expertise, and he was hardly qualified to give advice. Still, he asked tentatively, “Have you talked to Grantaire or Feuilly?”

Jehan stared at him blankly. “Grantaire or Feuilly?” he repeated.

“Yeah.” Combeferre shifted uncomfortably, hoping he wasn’t overstepping his bounds. “I may be way off base here but if you want to talk about the body and poetry, it makes sense to me that you would talk to an artist, right? Someone who looks at the body in an artistic sense on a regular basis?”

Still staring at him, a slow smile spread over Jehan’s face. “You’re a fucking genius,” he breathed, reaching out and grabbing Combeferre, pulling him in for a fierce hug. “Thank you!”

Combeferre could feel himself blush and he pulled away, clearing his throat. “It’s not a problem. I mean, I’m not a genius. It was just, you know, a thought.”

Jehan wasn’t listening. “Take your shirt off,” he told Combeferre, grabbing the notebook in front of him and flipping it open.

“I’m sorry?” said Combeferre, staring at Jehan as if he had sprouted two heads.

“Your shirt. Take it off.” When Jehan saw the look Combeferre was giving him, he rolled his eyes. “It’s not exactly practical to go over to Grantaire’s or Feuilly’s right now, and if I’m supposed to be studying the human form, it makes sense to use what’s in front of me.”

Combeferre wanted to argue, but he didn’t have a valid argument to use; Jehan was probably – unfortunately – right, and since Combeferre was the one who had inadvertently suggested it…With a sigh, he tugged his t-shirt over his head, folding it neatly and setting it on arm of the couch.

Since he was busy doing that, he didn’t catch the look that crossed Jehan’s face, surprise and admiration and downright lust. Combeferre’s body was…magnificent, the only word that came to Jehan’s mind. He was not as slim and lithe as Enjolras, nor as muscled as Bahorel, but he had the perfect amount of both, resulting in planes and lines that Jehan couldn’t help but want to lick.

When Combeferre looked back, Jehan was looking determinedly down at his notebook, a pink tinge on his cheeks. Combeferre half-shrugged and asked, voice hoarse, “So, uh, is this what you wanted?”

Jehan chanced a glance up and blushed deeper, dropping his eyes instantly to the paper. “Yeah, no, that’s good, thanks,” he muttered.

Combeferre frowned. “Jehan, what’s wrong?” he asked, reaching out to touch Jehan’s knee, concerned.

To his surprise, Jehan blushed even deeper. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said quickly, avoiding Combeferre’s gaze at all costs. “I promise you that.  _Nothing_ is wrong.”

“Jehan—” started Combeferre, but he stopped when Jehan bit his lip, still not meeting his eyes, and tentatively reached out to trace one hand up Combeferre’s chest. “Jehan?” he said again, when the hand stilled.

Jehan was now scarlet, but for the first time he managed to meet Combeferre’s gaze. “I, uh…I think I know what my advisor was saying,” he stammered. “About poetry. And the body. And…yeah.”

Combeferre raised one eyebrow. “Oh really?” he asked drily. “And what did your advisor mean?”

“I—this—um…There’s no way to say this without sounding like a perv or something, but God, Ferre, your body…it is poetry,” Jehan breathed, his hand running down Combeferre’s bicep.

Now it was Combeferre’s turn to blush furiously. “Um, thanks?” he said weakly.

Jehan half-smiled. “I mean it. Look at the lines of your body, the way it moves and curves and is interrupted by different, bisecting lines. There’s  _so much_  there. I could stare at your body all day.”

As if realizing what he had said, Jehan let out a squeak and fell silent. After a long moment, Combeferre reached out a hand to curve possessively around the back of Jehan’s head. “I would let you stare at my body all day,” he said softly, his voice surprisingly husky. Then he leaned in and kissed Jehan.

The kiss was not sweet, or tentative, but nor was it hard or demanding. It was the kiss of two people who had been friends for years, who had known perhaps long before this moment that both wanted more, but had struggled for a long time to put that into words. It was a kiss that was Combeferre telling Jehan that he knew full well that Joly and Bossuet’s place was three blocks closer to Jehan’s than his place, but that he didn’t give a damn. It was Jehan telling Combeferre that his body was only an added bonus, because he had fallen for Combeferre’s humor and strength and warmth and unbridled passion. It was a kiss that was too long coming, and too short to encompass everything they wanted to.

The kiss was poetry.

And when they broke apart, Jehan whispered, “I could write a dissertation on that kiss alone.”

Combeferre grinned. “Well, if it’s that inspiring to you, I don’t see any reason to stop, do you?”

That Monday, Jehan turned in the rewrite of his chapter, and his dissertation advisor heaped praise on, especially for the turn-around in emotion. Jehan just smiled, a small, secretive smile, and told his advisor, “Well, I had some help.”


	44. Prompt 41 - E/R with a teenage daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Slight TW for alcoholism and depression**

The sound of scuffling came from outside, and after a moment, the kitchen door creaked open, only to be swiftly, and mostly silently, closed. A shadowy figure slipped across the kitchen, freezing when the light came on to reveal Enjolras, sitting stone-faced at the kitchen table, fingers steepled in front of him. “It’s 3 a.m.,” he said, voice deathly calm. “Where in the world have you been?”

The teenaged girl rolled her eyes, brushing a lock of dyed-black hair out of her bright blue eyes. “Around,” she answered flippantly.

A muscle twitched in Enjolras’s jaw. “Sit,” he commanded.

“I’m not a dog,” she snapped defiantly, crossing her arms in front of her chest as she glared at him.

“I’m not going to tell you again, Violet,” he said, his tone of voice not changing, but something in his eyes turned steely.

She sat, slumping into the chair as if it was torture for her to do so. Enjolras frowned and leaned forward. “Now, what were you doing out until 3 in the morning? And don’t you dare tell me nothing, or that you were with friends.”

Her eyebrows quirked slightly, and she responded blithely, “But I was out with friends, and we were doing nothing.”

The smug smirk she gave reminded Enjolras far too powerfully of someone else, as did the smell he suddenly noticed emanating from her breath and clothes. His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Have you been drinking?”

There was a flash of something in her eyes, something close to worry or unease or maybe guilt, but it was quickly smoothed into defiance. “So what if I have been?”

“So what if…” Enjolras exhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The ‘so what’ is that you are sixteen years old, Vi, and not only is your curfew 11p.m. on the weekends, but you are five years from being legally able to drink. Alcohol is not something to be messed around with – it’s a dangerous and addictive substance.”

The smirk on her face twisted, and her eyes narrowed. “And if I were to go upstairs right now, I wouldn’t smell whiskey on Daddy’s breath?”

It took every ounce of self-control for Enjolras not to immediately snap. Instead, though he inhaled sharply, he took the time to slowly count to ten in his head before he responded. “Violet,” he said carefully, “your father is an adult capable of making his own decisions, and even if those decisions are—” He searched for a word that was not ‘stupid’, ‘irresponsible’, ‘maddening’ or something of that ilk – “occasionally regrettable, they are still his decisions to make. Whereas while you live under our roof, you will follow our rules.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, whatever.”

Enjolras frowned deeply. “Don’t ‘whatever’ me. Consider yourself grounded until further notice – no internet, no tv, no cellphone. You’re going to go up to your room and stay there until you talk to your father in the morning. Is that understood?” Violet glared at him, and Enjolras repeated, tone sharpening, “Is that understood?”

“Yes sir,” she snapped, flinging a mocking salute in his direction before slumping upstairs to her room.

Sighing deeply, Enjolras rubbed his hands wearily over his face, wondering what had happened to his little girl, who used to wear her blonde hair in pigtails and hang off of his hand, laughing up at him as she called him ‘Daddy’. When she had been little, everyone had raved over how much like Enjolras she was, but now that she was older, she had all the same characteristics as Grantaire, from the smirk she too often wore to the sarcasm she seemed to reply upon, to now, the burgeoning problems with alcohol.

Enjolras had never expected fatherhood to sit easily with him, never expected to be the fun dad who was more friend than father, had expected sleepless nights worrying. But now that it was here, now that it was reality, there was a pit in the bottom of his stomach that ached so much he wondered if he should ask Joly if it was an ulcer.

It wasn’t an ulcer, of course; it was the same feeling he had felt years ago, when Enjolras and Grantaire had first gotten together, when Grantaire had seemingly been on a one-way downward spiral. Rampant alcohol use, coupled with crippling depression, led him into some of his darkest times, and it had taken everything Grantaire was made of to pull himself out of it.

The hard lesson learned for Enjolras was how little he could do to help Grantaire, other than unconditionally being there for him.

Just as he would unconditionally be there for his daughter, but he worried that if she started down this path, she would lack the wherewithal to pull herself out of the same dark path.

Especially if genetics were not on her side.

When Grantaire and Enjolras had decided to have a child, particularly a child via surrogate, they knew that they did not want to know who the father would be, so they both submitted samples and let nature decide. When Violet was born, Enjolras insisted she looked like Grantaire, while Grantaire dismissed any similarities as coincidence, since she was so very much like Enjolras. Her hair was blonde, yes, but blonde hair ran on both sides of the family, and blue eyes didn’t rule out either man.

They had never wanted to know, never wanted to get her tested, and that hadn’t changed. But if she did have a genetic predisposition towards alcoholism, depression, or anything else, there was only one person in the world who might be able to get through to her.

And so Enjolras headed upstairs to rouse his husband from sleep. Once Grantaire was awake and had been fully briefed on the situation, he lay back against his pillows, frowning slightly. “I mean, I know she shouldn’t be drinking, Enj,” he said, contemplatively, “but she’s 16 years old. And it’s…I mean, it’s kind of expected.”

“Expected?” Enjolras repeated, frowning. “What do you mean by that?”

Grantaire waved an impatient hand. “You know, teenage rebellion and all that jazz. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the concept necessarily—” Enjolras snorted with derision, and Grantaire flashed him a smile, grabbing his hand and squeezing it “—at least not rebellion of the normal teenaged variety. Teenagers do dumb stuff, whether it’s drinking, smoking, staying up all night, having promiscuous sex…” Enjolras made a growling noise in the back of his throat and Grantaire chuckled. “I don’t think she’s having promiscuous sex, sweetheart. But I also don’t think it’s something we should be freaking out about.”

Enjolras frowned. “But what if she’s like you?”

Grantaire’s shoulder’s tensed. “What do you mean, like me?”

As if realizing he was treading on dangerous ground, Enjolras chose his next words very carefully. “You know as well as I do that depression and alcoholism can be hereditary. And we don’t know, biologically-speaking, whose child she is. She could be yours as easily as mine. But if there is some genetic predisposition, it gives us something more to be concerned about.”

When Grantaire just looked at him skeptically, Enjolras reached up to cup his cheek, smoothing his thumb over Grantaire’s cheekbone. “I almost lost you once,” he whispered, eyes dark with the memory, “and I’ve very, very worried that our daughter is headed down that same path. I can’t lose her, Taire. Just like I can’t lose you.”

Grantaire reached up to rest his hand on top of Enjolras’s, a warm, steady weight, and he said softly, “You won’t. And I’ll talk to her tomorrow, alright?”

“Alright,” whispered Enjolras, snuggling against Grantaire as they lay down. “I already grounded her, so you get to be the nice father.”

Chuckling, Grantaire pressed a kiss to the top of Enjolras’s head. “I’m always the nice father,” he pointed out, but then added, “But this time I won’t be too nice. I promise.”

Enjolras nestled his head into the crook of Grantaire’s neck and yawned. “Good. But we should talk about your drinking, too, at some point.”

“The doctor said it was fine in moderation, and I’ve been sticking to that,” Grantaire protested, combing his fingers through Enjolras’s curls.

“Yeah, but as someone who should be setting an example…”

Grantaire pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s temple. “We’ll discuss it later, alright? For now, let’s get a few hours of sleep before your alarm wakes us up at an unreasonable hour.”

Though Enjolras muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Seven o’clock is not unreasonable”, he kissed Grantaire lightly and said, “Goodnight, Taire.”

“Goodnight, Enjolras.”

* * *

 

It took only a ten-minute conversation between Grantaire and Violet for Violet to come out of her bedroom, give Enjolras a hug, and promise to try and behave better in the future.

Enjolras never knew what it was that Grantaire said to her to cause this change.

Grantaire never told him how powerful the image could be of the strongest, bravest man you know being afraid. Especially afraid of something you were doing.

It was the image that had gotten Grantaire through his own depression, knowing that only he could be the strong one. And it was the image that truly drove home the message of how dangerous Violet’s rebellion could be.

Which wasn’t to say that she didn’t still rebel, as all teenagers did. She rebelled politically – by volunteering for the local congressman, who was, of all things, a conservative Republican. But at least she did all of her volunteer work with an ‘I-couldn’t-care-less-about-any-of-this-bullshit’ smirk that seemed not to further the congressman’s cause too much.

After all, she was her fathers’ daughter.


	45. Prompt 42 - Courf/Jehan Ultrafluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this was quite fluffy enough to be considered "ultrafluff", but c'est la vie. A little bit of E/R here too.

The wind howled outside their apartment, and Courfeyrac huddled further into the corner of the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around him, fervently glad for the space heater they had borrowed from Enjolras, which was going full blast. As much as Courfeyrac loved the apartment he shared with Jehan, it had a tendency toward draftiness in the dead of winter, when the gales of wind seemed to find every possible crevice to leave Courfeyrac shivering.

It helped that in addition to the space heater borrowed from Enjolras, which was as close to Courfeyrac as possible without running the risk of lighting anything on fire, Courfeyrac normally had his own personal space heater in the form of Jehan, who seemed to run a few degrees warmer than most. This meant that when he snuggled with Courf, he radiated warmth that few others could provide.

But Jehan wasn’t here at the moment, out helping Grantaire with something – Courfeyrac neither knew nor cared what, just wanting Jehan so that he could cuddle with him.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, and Jehan traipsed in, wrapped in his oversized winter parka, snow sticking to his coat. “It’s snowing outside,” he informed Courfeyrac, voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face.

“I can see that,” said Courf, smiling happily at him and waiting for him to divest of his outerwear so that he could come sit by Courfeyrac.

Predictable as ever, once Jehan had stripped off his coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, he slumped over to the couch, collapsing exhaustedly next to Courfeyrac, instantly curling up to place his head on Courf’s chest. “I had a long day,” he complained, burrowing his face into Courfeyrac’s sweater.

Courfeyrac wrapped an arm around him, drawing him in closer, gently rubbing his back as he looked down at him concernedly. “Why, did something go wrong with…whatever it was you were helping Grantaire with?”

“I wouldn’t say it went wrong, per se,” said Jehan, almost contemplatively, arching instinctively into Courfeyrac’s touch much like a cat. “It’s just…things are weird now.”

Frowning slightly, Courfeyrac brushed a lock of hair out of Jehan’s eyes. “How so?”

Jehan frowned as well. “Well, you know how Grantaire and Enjolras are, like, a  _thing_  now?”

A smile flit across Courfeyrac’s face, mostly smug, for he had won a considerable sum of money from the bets their friends had made regarding when and how Enjolas and Grantaire would finally get together. “Yeah, I know. What’s wrong with that? You wanted that for them for a long time – so did we all.”

“I did,” said Jehan quickly, adding, “I still do. I just…” He sat up and Courfeyrac unwittingly made a small, pleading whimper, and without thinking Jehan scooted closer to Courfeyrac so that as much of their bodies were touching as possible without literally sitting on his lap. “They were acting so…so… _couple-y_.”

Courfeyrac laced his hand with Jehans, stroking his thumb across the poet’s knuckles as he hummed agreeably. “That would have been a sight to see. What exactly were they doing?”

Jehan shrugged, turning so that he could drape his legs over Courfeyrac’s, smiling slightly as Courfeyrac instantly began giving him a foot massage with his free hand. “I don’t know, they were just…touching. Like constantly. And they fought, which is normal, but then they kissed afterwards, and I don’t know. It just threw me off.”

Nodding slowly, Courfeyrac placed a kiss to Jehan’s temple. “Yeah, that doesn’t seem like them. I mean, I can’t imagine Enjolras acting all lovey-dovey, you know? Grantaire, maybe, but not Enjolras.”

Jehan ran his free hand through Courfeyrac’s hair, kissing the corner of his mouth before saying, “Enjolras was even worse than Grantaire. He was even trying to flirt, Courf, swear to God. It was perhaps the most awkward thing I have ever witnessed, and I had to witness your attempts at courting me.”

Courfeyrac pouted. “My attempts were not  _that_  bad,” he said, though unspoken laughter glinted in his eyes as he kissed Jehan on the nose, making Jehan laugh out loud. “Besides, even if they were bad, they still got me you, didn’t they?”

“That is true,” said Jehan softly, squeezing Courfeyrac’s hand, leaning in to kiss Courfeyrac softly on the lips.

Without moving his lips from Jehan’s, Courfeyrac lifted Jehan up to place him directly on his lap, wrapping his arms around his waist to keep him steady. “And since you’re the best thing that’s ever been in my life, I would say my clumsy attempts at courtship were well worth it, don’t you think?” he asked mildly, his lips ghosting against Jehan’s.

Jehan kissed him again, curling his fingers into Courfeyrac’s hair. “Again, that is true. You’re the best thing in my life as well.”

Courfeyrac rested his forehead against Jehan’s, tracing random patterns against Jehan’s lower back with his fingers. “I love you,” he told him, almost off-handedly, the way they had said it to each other hundreds of times before, but meaning it just as much as – if not more than – the first time he had told him, that first desperate attempt when he was scared that Jehan was going to leave him after their first big fight.

“I love you, too,” answered Jehan, stroking Courfeyrac’s cheek with his soft fingers. “My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.”

“Keats?” guessed Courfeyrac, smiling at the delighted look on Jehan’s face. “I’m learning – or at least, I’m trying to.” He kissed Jehan soundly, pulling him even closer. “I love you more and more each day, and will forever,” he told him.

“Good,” said Jehan, snuggling against him. “And since you love me so much, next time I have to go witness the over-sappy lovebirds, you’re coming with me.”

Courfeyrac smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of Jehan’s head. “Deal.”

* * *

 

In an apartment only a few blocks away, Grantaire leaned against Enjolras, sketching in his notepad while Enjolras finished reading a chapter in his book, a fire burning cheerfully in the grate, keeping the deep winter’s chill at bay. Finally, Enjolras closed his book and set it down, stretching slightly, and ending with an arm loose around Grantaire shoulder, turning and kissing him lightly on the cheek. Grantaire grinned at him. “Careful now,” he chuckled. “I could get used to this whole lovey-dovey bullshit.”

Enjolras laughed. “I think neither of us could stomach getting too used to acting like we did today.”

“Nah, probably not,” agreed Grantaire, poking Enjolras in the stomach and laughing as Enjolras made a squeaking sound. “It’s so much more fun this way.”

Frowning slightly, Enjolras asked, “Do you think we went overboard with Jehan today?”

Grantaire looked contemplative. “Maybe a little,” he allowed. “But really, after all these months of having to watch Courf and Jehan act like vomit-inducing, lovesick teenagers swooning all over each other, Jehan deserved to have a little bit returned to him.”

“That is true,” Enjolras agreed. “But we’ll have to be all over each other again when Courf’s around.”

Smiling, Grantaire said contently, “Ah, and vengence shall be so, so sweet.”


	46. Prompt 43 - Feuilly/Éponine Dating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another pairing I've never written before. But I think this one turned out the best, thus far, of the pairings that I've never written.

Feuilly took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he was about to do. It was going to be one of the hardest things he had to do, and he was terrified of what the answer was going to be. Still, he had been struggling with this for a long time, and knew he had to ask, even if the answer wasn’t what he wanted. Taking another deep breath, he steeled himself and carefully slid into a chair at the table in the Musain and asked cautiously, “Can I ask you something?"

Courfeyrac looked up at him, grinning. “My dear Feuilly, you can ask me anything you wish, you know that."

This was the moment Feuilly dreaded, but still he sucked in a breath before saying weakly, “I…I need advice. Of a…romantic nature."

Instantly, Courfeyrac brightened, practically beaming at him. “And you thought to come to me? Feuilly, I am touched, truly." His smile turned smug as he preened. “Of course, of our friends, I am the natural choice, given my various love engagements."

Feuilly scowled. This was exactly why he  _hadn’t_  wanted to ask Courfeyrac, had in fact already had this conversation with Jehan, who had been surprisingly unhelpful, in his opinion. For being enthralled with romance, Jehan’s advice had boiled down to, “Be yourself", which was far more trite than Feuilly would have expected. And so Feuilly had decided to seek other, better advice.

But of course, the question then became from whom he could solicit advice among their friends. Combeferre would have been his first choice, but Combeferre was out of town at a conference. Grantaire was out for obvious reasons, as was Bahorel. Joly and Bossuet were possibilities but since they had been together for so long, he doubted they remembered what it was like when you first started dating someone. He had even half-considered talking to Enjolras, but quickly dismissed that idea.

Which left Courfeyrac. Who wasn’t a bad choice, all things considered, since as he had said, he had plenty of experience in this area. But Courfeyrac could also be downright insufferable, and wouldn’t let Feuilly forget that he had had to ask for advice.

Still, what was done was done, and he had started this whole mess, and he may as well finish it. “You know how I’ve been seeing Éponine?" he started.

Courfeyrac nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, and I don’t know if I ever congratulated you on that. I am delighted for you and for her. But don’t tell me there’s trouble in paradise already?"

Frowning, Feuilly said, “No, there’s no problem. It’s our…first-month anniversary…ish…coming up and I don’t know what to do for it. For her."

"A very good question, young Feuilly," Courfeyrac nodded sagely. “The ladies take these kinds of things very seriously. Consider this the first test in your relationship. What do you normally do for your dates?"

Feuilly’s frown deepened. “Um, not much? We just kind of hang out, watch a movie. I cook for her sometimes? That’s…about it?"

Courfeyrac shook his head. “Feuilly, Feuilly, Feuilly," he sighed, sounding disappointed. “That is no way to treat a lady. You’ll have to make up for this on your anniversary. What were you thinking of doing?"

"Well," said Feuilly hesitantly, “I’ve been doing some metalwork in my art classes of late, and I sort of thought of maybe making her a necklace or something?"

Courfeyrac looked skeptical. “You  _could_  do that, but this is an important occasion. This is make or break it time. I’m thinking it’s time to break out the big guns. You’ve got to wine and dine her, make it memorable."

Feuilly’s heart sank. One of the things he liked about Éponine was how laid-back things were between them, how she didn’t seem to expect fancy things, which, given that he was working two jobs just to continue to make ends meet and didn’t have much extra money, was a good thing. But Courfeyrac was probably right - anniversaries were a big deal, and he wanted to do this right. If he picked up a few extra shifts at work this week, and lived on ramen for the rest of the month, he could  _probably_  swing a fairly nice dinner. Probably.

So he thanked Courfeyrac, who looked far too pleased with himself, and left to call his supervisor at work. Enjolras, who had been working at a different table in the café, lowered his book and frowned at Courfeyrac. “I was unaware you were an expert on anniversaries," he remarked mildly. “In fact, I was under the impression that you had never been in a serious relationship that lasted as long as one month."

Shrugging nonchalantly, Courfeyrac said, “Well, what Feuilly doesn’t know can’t hurt him."

* * *

 

Feuilly sat stiffly at the table across from Éponine, who looked beautiful in a midnight blue dress. She looked down at the menu in front of her and let out a low whistle. “Can you afford this?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Don’t worry about it," he said instantly. “It’s our anniversary and I wanted it to be special."

She smiled at him, a surprisingly sweet smile. “And I appreciate that, I promise, but I don’t want you to go broke just for me."

Feuilly couldn’t help but smiling back at her. “Well, if I was going to go broke - which I’m not, by the way - there isn’t anyone I’d rather go broke for."

Snorting, Éponine said wryly, “I think that’s supposed to be cute or something, so thank you, but it’s a little cheesy, babe." He stuck his tongue out at her and she laughed. “That’s more like it."

The waiter stopped at the table to take their order, and Feuilly couldn’t help but add the tab up in his head, visibly paling at he realized just how much this was going to cost, feeling sweat breaking out under the collar of the suit he had borrowed from Bossuet. He might be living on ramen for the next month as well. Éponine gave him a concerned look, taking a sip of wine. “Are you alright?"

He instantly pasted a smile on his face. “Of course." Picking up his own wine glass, he raised it in a toast. “To us, and to a perfect night."

She tapped her glass against his, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Cheers." After taking another sip of wine, she said, “I have to go to the powder room." As she stood, she tripped and almost fell into his lap, throwing out her arms and catching herself against his chest. “Oof, I’m sorry!" she exclaimed, blushing. “I’m not used to wearing heels."

"Not a problem," he said cheerfully, kissing her cheek and watching appreciatively as she walked away.

The rest of the dinner passed without incident, although Feuilly couldn’t help but sigh with relief when she passed on dessert. That is, it went without incident until he went to pay the bill and found his wallet missing. “Shit," he said, telling Éponine, “I lost my wallet."

She frowned. “Maybe you left it in the car?" she suggested.

He frowned as well, more in confusion than anything, "Ép—" he started, but she cut him off.

"Why don’t you go out and look for it? I’m sure it must have just fallen out."

Standing obediently, though still confused, Feuilly went outside, then stood looking around, unsure what was going on.

Because they had walked over to the restaurant, so either Éponine had forgotten that, or—

A second later, Éponine burst out of the restaurant, grabbing his hand and pulling him down the sidewalk. “You might want to run," she told him cheerfully.

"Run?" he repeated blankly, and she tugged more insistently. Suddenly, he realized what was going on and he asked quickly, “Are we dining and dashing?"

She grinned at him. “Why, Monsieur Feuilly, what a suggestion! But yes, yes we are, and so, you may want to run."

And so they ran, dashing down the sidewalk hand in hand as they sprinted in the opposite direction of the restaurant. “Can you run in those?" Feuilly asked, nodding in the direction of Éponine’s heels.

"Of course," she replied, laughing.

She tugged him into the park, which they would cut through to get back to Éponine’s apartment, and they slowed to a walk, still hand in hand. Feuilly looked sideways at her, puzzled. “So you can run in heels, even though you’re not used to wearing them?"

Frowning, she looked confused for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, I almost forgot about that." She stopped and reached into her cleavage, pulling out Feuilly’s wallet and tossing it to him. “I just needed an excuse to fall on you so I could grab this."

He gaped at her. “You  _stole_ my wallet?" he practically squawked.

"Steal is a naughty word," she said, grinning wickedly. “I just borrowed it for a bit."

"But…why?" he asked, bewildered.

She turned to face him, suddenly serious. “Because look, while I appreciate the gesture, you shouldn’t have to spend that much money on me. You should know me better than that by now - I would’ve been fine with you cooking or something simple."

Feuilly blushed slightly. “I should have known that," he admitted, wishing he had taken Jehan’s advice. “I just thought that I should do something special."

"And I appreciate that, truly."

He bit his lip and said, “Well, I did get you something else." He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small box. “It’s not a ring or anything," he warned.

Éponine glared at him. “Good because if you had gotten me a ring…" She broke off to open the box, gasping a little when she saw the delicate necklace within. “Feuilly, did you  _make_  this?"

Smiling a little shyly, he asked, “Do you like it?"

"I love it," she told him sincerely, pulling her hair forward to reveal her neck. “Help me put it on."

He clasped it around her neck, bending down to press a kiss against her soft skin and she laughed lightly. “Happy anniversary," he whispered.

"Happy anniversary," she said to him as well, turning to face him, “I wish I had thought to get you something."

He took her hand and kissed it before they started walking in the direction of Éponine’s apartment. “Well," he said contemplatively, “you did technically steal dinner for me, so we can count that. Unless if that was just ‘borrowing’ too."

She laughed again. “Nope, that was stealing," she said cheerfully. “And for you, I’d do it again."

"And here you were accusing me of being cheesy," he teased, putting his arm around her shoulder and pulling her close to kiss her. “At least my toast turned out to be true."

Looking up at him, she asked mildly, “Oh?"

He kissed her again. “This was definitely a perfect night."


	47. Prompt 44 - E/R, R in the Hospital

Enjolras burst into Combeferre’s apartment, savage grin on his face. He had just managed to get away from the riot that their latest protest had turned into, and though he had a black eye blooming over one eye and a split lip that had dribbled blood down his chin, with dried spots on his shirt. It had been a success – as much of a success as they had hoped. Riot aside, the people were  _angry_ , were fighting back, and for the moment, that was victory enough.

Still, the riot had gotten a bit out of hand, and when the police had started cracking down on the crowd, Enjolras had given the signal for Les Amis to scatter. Their set rendezvous point was Combeferre’s apartment, and Enjolras was one of the first to arrive.

Joly was already there, and he made a tsk-ing noise when he saw Enjolras’s face. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing at the kitchen chair, going to wet a washcloth.

Enjolras couldn’t stop grinning, even as Joly dabbed at his split lip. “Who’s already here?” he asked.

“Bossuet and Courfeyrac were first. Courf’s helping Bossuet home – he twisted his ankle on the way over.” Joly pursed his lips slightly and rolled his eyes – it would be Bossuet’s luck to get injured running  _away_  from a riot. “Jehan and Feuilly arrived next. We’re still waiting on Bahorel, Combeferre and Grantaire.”

As if on cue, the door banged open and Bahorel and Combeferre stumbled in, both red-faced from running. Combeferre’s eyes locked on Enjolras’s, and Enjolras was startled by what he saw there. All Combeferre said, in a grim voice, was a single name. “Grantaire.”

Enjolras stood instantly, brushing Joly’s hands away. “What happened?”

Combeferre glanced at Bahorel, who supplied, “He got knocked over by someone fleeing the scene, and when we tried to go back to get him, he had been surrounded by the police.”

In a soft voice, Combeferre added, “They were calling the paramedics. It didn’t look good, Enjolras. There was a lot of blood.”

“I have to get to the hospital,” said Enjolras automatically. “I have to make sure—” He broke off, the words ‘that Grantaire’s ok/alive’ hanging in the air.

Combeferre exchanged a worried glance with Joly. “Is that a good idea…?” Joly started, hand fluttering nervously as if torn between pulling Enjolras back into the chair and letting him go.

When Combeferre looked back at Enjolras, whose eyes had hardened, jaw clenched, something in his expression equal parts fierce and desperate, he nodded his head just once, though he still looked worried. Without another words, Enjolras brushed past Combeferre and Bahorel, heading straight to the hospital, to the side of the man that frustrated and challenged him on more levels than any other person he had ever encountered, the man whose smirk was always on  _just_  this side of mocking, but who had a softness in his eyes that Enjolras longed to know more about. The man who represented everything Enjolras was fighting against, and simultaneously everything he was fighting for

The man who very well may be the love of Enjolras’s life.

It had happened so suddenly, all at once, the rush of feelings he had never expected, and yet it also seemed so simple, like the pieces of his life just sliding into place. They had known each other for years now, Grantaire always being the cynic, loudmouthed in the back corner, cracking jokes and mocking everything Enjolras said. Their relationship had never seemed to go beyond outright antagonism.

And even when they weren’t fighting, Enjolras was always taken aback by the self-loathing and deprecation that Grantaire felt. Grantaire was always the butt of his own jokes, always the one he mocked the most, and Enjolras was constantly torn between wanting to agree to him and wanting to argue with the way Grantaire viewed himself.

Either way, there was a camaraderie that grew from constant disagreements, the kind that stemmed from finding yourself getting not only used to the other’s irritating attitude, but looking forward to finding new ways to counter it. And then, not even a week ago, at a party at Courfeyrac’s, they had kissed.

Just one kiss, and so tentative at that, but in that moment, Enjolras  _knew_. He knew that this was a seminal moment, the kind of thing neither could go back from. He had known as solidly and concretely as he had known anything in his life.

But he hadn’t told Grantaire.

He had debated with himself, wanting to tell him, wanting to move forward together into whatever this was, whatever it could be, but had been held back by reality. Whatever could happen between them would be complicated and messy and Enjolras didn’t know if he could afford that at the moment, with their protests picking up steam, with more people joining the cause. He couldn’t afford that kind of a distraction.

He was so very, very wrong.

Because what he couldn’t afford was this panicked ache in his chest, the kind that felt like his heart might explode from beating so hard, from racing in fear and worry and downright dread. And in that moment, he wished most fervently that he had told him, had told him everything, because what if that had been his only chance?

That thought haunted him all the way to the hospital, and when he arrived, he was greeted with surprising news, both good and bad. Grantaire was alive – but unconscious. He would need more tests to determine if any damage done was lasting, and the doctor specifically warned Enjolras not to celebrate yet.

But he also learned that at some point, Grantaire had made Enjolras his emergency contact, the sole one among their group of friends authorized to make medical decisions for him, authorized to be briefed on his condition.

And that in and of itself gave Enjolras a glimmer of hope.

When he went into Grantaire’s hospital room, though, the glimmer vanished. Grantaire’s face was swollen and red, the beginnings of bruises blooming across his normally pale features. One arm was broken, his left arm – Enjolras mentally gave thanks that it hadn’t been his right, that Grantaire would still be able to paint – as well as some ribs. The worst was the white bandage wrapped around Grantaire’s head, hiding the soft, black curls that Enjolras had initially hated but now found himself rather fond of.

Grantaire didn’t look like Grantaire. Grantaire looked like he had one foot in death’s door, and Enjolras felt winded, as if he had been punched in the stomach.

He sank into the hand plastic chair next to Grantaire’s bed, automatically reaching out to grab Grantaire’s hand, to run his thumb over cold fingers. “Hey,” he said softly, voice unexpectedly hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey. I, uh, I don’t know if you can…I mean, the doctor said you were unconscious and I don’t think you can hear me, I don’t…I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t know if I  _want_  you to be able to hear me. But…”

Trailing off, his sharp eyes searched Grantaire’s features for any flicker of recognition, of awakening, and when he didn’t see any, he sighed. “There’s so much I want to tell you. So much I should have told you before… And if I don’t tell you now, well, who knows when my next chance might be?”

Enjolras scooted the chair closer to the bed, holding Grantaire’s hand between both of his, his voice soft, almost contemplative. “For a long time I thought I hated you. I hated how you drank so much, how you were so bitter and cynical, how you were a waste of space and good for nothing. I hated that you didn’t seem to want to make anything of your life, that you were content with the hand life dealt you. And I thought I hated you most of all for the fact that I knew none of those things were true, that I knew you could be more than that, be  _better_  than that.

“But then I got to know you, really know you, beyond just our back-and-forth arguments, and I realized it was more than that. Because what I hated most of all was the fact that you truly believe that you can’t be more than that, that you aren’t better than that, that you aren’t worth more than this life you’ve made for yourself.”

He broke off, feeling choked up, and said quietly, “I would do anything in my power to show you just how much you are worth, just how much you could be. But I know that’s not enough. That could never be enough. You can’t measure your worth by what I see in you. You have to measure your worth in what you see in yourself. It’s a hard-learned lesson that I had to learn for myself a long time ago. Remind me to tell you about it sometime.”

This time he had to stop talking from the sudden, sickening realization that he may never be able to tell Grantaire about it, and his grip on Grantaire’s hand was almost painfully tight. Letting out a shuddering breath, he released Grantaire’s hand, gripping the railing of the hospital bed instead, his knuckles white.

When he had managed to control his breathing somewhat, ignoring the tears that had somehow traced their way down his cheeks – because he wasn’t  _crying_ , goddamnit, not here, not now – he said, in a voice almost as broken as his heart felt, “If I could tell you what I really want to, I would tell you that I love you, and I would mean it, and everything that came with it. But I…God, this sounds terrible and corny and part of me is really glad you’re not awake to hear any of this, but you have to love yourself, Taire. And that is what I want for you, more than anything else in the world. I want you to wake up so that you can see the world become a little bit better everyday, so that you can feel a little less alone, so that you can know that all of our friends really do care. And so that maybe, one day, something or someone can break through the walls that you’ve put up. And maybe you’ll believe me when I say that I love you. And maybe you’ll be a little less broken.

“I look at you and I see everything that you could be. I just wish you could see what I see.”

Enjolras stood, awkwardly, having run out of things to say for the most part, and he looked down at Grantaire’s swollen, broken features, and his heart twisted, wondering if this was how Grantaire saw himself. Hesitantly, as unsure as he had ever been, Enjolras leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. Then he cleared his throat and said, voice thick with tears, “I do love you. And there’s so much I want for you. But most of, Taire, I want you to wake up and to be fine. So if you can just…do that for me, please.”

He waited for a moment as if expecting Grantaire to answer, then turned and left, closing the hospital room door behind him.

In the hospital bed, Grantaire’s eyes snapped open, his fingers curling compulsively against the scratchy sheets. He had woken up not long after Enjolras had come in, but when Enjolras had started talking, he had stayed still, wanting to hear what Enjolras had to say.

And he had heard. Every single word.

And the only thing that he could think was,  _What the fuck am I going to do now?_


	48. Prompt 45 - Joly/Jehan Cuteness/Fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blargh I did not have time to publish a chapter yesterday and probably won't tomorrow. I am in the middle of moving, so am a bit busy (I'll respond to everyone's comments when I am done, I promise).
> 
> Forgive any egregious mistakes as I am posting from my phone.

“Dr. Jolllly,” called Jehan, leaning over the counter to smile at the man in question, whose ears went pink as he smiled back at Jehan.

“Mr. Prouvaire. We’ve been over this before – I’m not a doctor, just a pharmacist,” said Joly, wiping his hands on his lab coat.

Jehan raised an eyebrow at him. “I won’t call you doctor if you won’t call me ‘Mr. Prouvaire’.”

Joly pretended to consider it, then nodded once, smiling even wider. “I think I can handle that. Now, what can I do for you, Jehan?”

This was the same routine they had followed almost every time Jehan had come in to the pharmacy, exchanging a little bit of light banter as Jehan came to pick up whatever prescription he was coming in for, calling Joly “Dr.” and then insisting Joly call him “Jehan”. Though Joly would never admit it, not under torture or threat of bodily injury – though perhaps under the influence of several shots of tequila – he looked forward to these little exchanges, to seeing the man he had come to regard as a friend.

Jean Prouvaire had been coming to Joly’s pharmacy for a few years. And if Joly happened to have the list of Jehan’s prescriptions memorized, as well as a list of the medications Jehan most often needed, plus a mental note of any possible drug interactions, it was just to provide the best possible care. And that was it.

It was not creepy. It _wasn’t_.

Well, not _too_ creepy, anyway.

Today, Jehan was smiling sweetly at him, his green eyes full of laughter and just a little bit of mischief. “I seek your advice, dear Jolllly. I have a cough and need to know how best to treat it, for which you are of course my first and only resource.”

Joly blushed slightly at that, but put on a determined smile. “I’m always willing to help my best customer. Tell me more about this cough.”

Jehan began describing it, but Joly couldn’t help but stare at him, at the splash of freckles that dotted his nose and cheeks, at the way he tucked his hair behind one ear but it constantly fell into his face despite his best efforts to keep it behind his ear, at the garish, clashing prints he wore with little care to how they looked, and, of course, at the graceful visage of his body within those clothes.

It didn’t help that during their years of getting to know each other, Jehan had revealed himself to be witty, intelligent, sensitive, a lover of strength and beauty with a backbone of steel and a whip-smart tongue that sometimes got away from him.

Joly couldn’t help it – he was a little bit in love.

But as part of their friendship – if it could be called that – Jehan had told Joly all about his love life, the various ups and downs, trials and tribulations, and Joly had pined from afar, unable or unwilling to take the steps necessary to move this into something else, something more.

Realizing that he was mostly ignoring Jehan, he tuned back in to find Jehan chattering enthusiastically about the flowers currently blooming in the park, seemingly oblivious to the way Joly was looking at him. Joly cleared his throat gently. “Jehan…your symptoms?”

“Oh, right,” said Jehan, going pleasantly pink as he laughed. “Well, like I said, I’ve got a cough, a real nasty one with gross stuff coming up…”

Joly laughed and supplied, “Phlegm? Sputum?”

Jehan grinned at him and said cheerfully, “Yeah, that’d be it. Phlegm.”

“Well it sounds like what you need is an expectorant,” said Joly knowledgeably. “Do you have any other symptoms, or just the cough?”

Jehan and Joly chatted for a little while longer, and Joly showed him the medicine that would help Jehan most. Then Jehan waved cheerily and set off, leaving Joly to sigh longingly and stare after him.

To Joly’s immense surprise, Jehan was back only a few days later, still grinning brightly, but with new symptoms to report. Joly listened worriedly as Jehan described fatigue and occasionally chills, and even forced Jehan to sit still long enough to take his temperature.

Since Jehan wasn’t running a fever, Joly suggested a different medication, and also recommended that Jehan see his doctor. Jehan brushed that off with a disarming smile, saying, “What do I need a doctor for, Joly? I’ve got you!”

But then he was in not even two days later, complaining of loss of appetite. Joly was beginning to get worried, very worried. Though Jehan didn’t look sick, in fact looked as cheerful and full of life as ever, he nonetheless could be potentially very, very ill. Still, Jehan rebuffed his advice to see his doctor, paying for his new medication and leaving.

Joly went home that night, poured himself a glass of pinot noir, and tried very hard to read the next chapter in his book, but he couldn’t see to stop thinking of Jehan, of the symptoms he had described, symptoms that seemed more and more worrisome the more Joly dwelt on them. And though he told himself that it was none of his business, that he shouldn’t be thinking about it, shouldn’t be worrying about it, he nonetheless found himself grabbing his copy of the American Medical Association’s Complete Medical Encyclopedia, turning to the page he was looking for.

His heart sank as he read through the symptoms, recognizing many of them as belonging to Jehan. If what the book said was true, and if Jehan’s symptoms lined up, Jehan could be seriously ill.

Sitting back in his chair, Joly frowned, his heart and mind racing. If Jehan was as ill as this seemed to suggest, he needed medical attention immediately. But it would be… _weird_ if he were to call him, right? How in the world was Joly supposed to explain the fact that he was thinking about Jehan, worrying about Jehan?

He was just a pharmacist.

And Jehan was just a customer.

But Jehan was so much more than that to Joly, and so with slight trepidation, he called Jehan’s cellphone. When there was no answer, Joly tried not to panic. Thanks to the time he had embarrassingly spent memorizing everything he could about Jehan, he knew Jehan’s home address. And though this was far overstepping the boundaries of propriety, he determinedly got in his car and drove over there.

Since his memorization of Jehan had never progressed to actual stalking, he had never been in his neighborhood before, but thankfully found the apartment building with little problem. He buzzed Jehan’s apartment, but much as with Jehan’s phone, there was no answer. Desperately, he rang one of Jehan’s neighbors, who miraculously buzzed him in with few questions asked.

He took the stairs two at a time until he got to Jehan’s apartment, then pounded on the door, calling, “Jehan! Open up, it’s me, Joly. Jehan!”

After a few moments, Jehan opened the door, looking extremely confused. “Joly?” he asked, forehead wrinkled.

“Yeah, um, hi,” said Joly breathlessly. “Um, I tried calling, but you didn’t answer, and one of your neighbors buzzed me in because, well—”

“I wouldn’t answer,” Jehan finished, smiling slightly. “Yeah, sorry, I was listening to music on my headphones. I play Wagner when I’m writing, and _Der fliegende Holländer_ drives my neighbor crazy, so I listen to it on headphones…But what are you doing here?”

Joly bit his lip. “It’s…a bit of a long story, but your symptoms, they could mean that you’re really sick, Jehan. And I think you need to go see a doctor right away. I can take you over if you want, my car’s parked right outside—”

Jehan held up a calming hand. “Whoa, slow down. What do you think is going on?”

“Do you have blood in your sputum?” Joly asked, in lieu of answering.

Looking baffled, Jehan repeated, “Blood in my – what?”

Joly blushed, but asked again, “When you cough, is there blood in your sputum?”

A small smile crept across Jehan’s face, and he said, “No, Joly, there’s no blood in my sputum.”

“That doesn’t really matter,” said Joly, almost to himself. “It could still be asymptomatic at this point…” Squaring his shoulders, he told Jehan in as calm a voice as he could muster, “Jehan, I think you might have tuberculosis. And I want to take you to the hospital to get a TB test to be on the safe side. If we’ve caught it early enough, it can be treated—”

To his immense surprise, Jehan stifled what rather suspiciously sounded like a giggle. “Why don’t you come in?” he asked Joly, pulling the door open wider.

Joly just stared at him. “Come in?” he echoed blankly. “Jehan, you could be seriously sick, and TB can be airborne and possibly infect a lot of people. We need to get you to the hospital right away.”

“I don’t have tuberculosis,” said Jehan patiently, still holding the door in. “Now come inside. I’ll get you a glass of wine.”

Though Joly followed him into the apartment, he still looked confused. “What do you mean, you don’t have TB? Have you been tested? When was your most recent test? Did you go to see your doctor?”

Jehan thrust a glass of wine into Joly’s hands, and, taking him by the shoulders, pushed him gently down onto the couch before settling next to him, cradling his own glass of wine in his hands. “I know I don’t have TB because I’m not sick, Joly. I never was.”

Joly blinked at him. “What do you mean, you never were sick? But all the symptoms that you described…”

Shrugging apologetically, Jehan took a sip of wine. “I made them all up.”

“But…but…the medicine you bought?” asked Joly weakly.

Jehan grinned. “Let’s just say I probably have the best-stocked medicine cabinet in town.”

Joly didn’t smile, looking down into his untouched wineglass. “Why would you lie to me about that?” he said finally, his voice small and a little hurt.

To his surprise, Jehan reached out tentatively to rest a hand on his knee. “Do you really not know?” he asked, smiling crookedly. “I was trying to come up with excuses to come see you. There’s only so many times I can get my prescriptions refilled, and…well…I wanted to see you. To talk to you.”

Joly froze. “You mean…you…you lied about being sick…for me?”

Jehan shrugged. “I can’t say it was the most well thought out plan, but it seemed to get you to think of me, so maybe I can consider the mission partly successful?” Joly just stared at him, and Jehan’s smile faded. “Look, I’m really sorry to have worried you, but I wasn’t supposed to be describing an actual illness. Apparently I just suck at making up imaginary illnesses. Or else I’ve been reading too much Poe lately. But I really…it was supposed to be all in good fun, just a way for me to come in and flirt with you and watch the way your ears turn pink when I call you ‘doctor’ and admire your fine ass when you bend over to get medicines off the shelf for me, and to just listen to you talk to me, and—”

He was cut off by Joly who leaned in and kissed him. It was more of just lips smushed together than anything, but when they broke apart, both men were grinning. Jehan reached out, cupping the base of Joly’s skull, and pulled him closer, kissing him, softly and soundly. When they broke apart again, Joly cleared his throat nervously and asked, “So, um, do you…want to go out sometime?”

Jehan kissed him again. “Yes, I would,” he said, grinning. “And I promise it won’t involve illness of any kind.”

Joly grinned and kissed him back, enthralled that he could almost count the freckles on Jehan’s nose that he had admired from afar for so long. “I think I can handle that.”


	49. Prompt 46 - Courf/Jehan Wedding (Jehan & Grantaire Friendship)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to get this up while mooching off of Starbucks' free Wi-Fi (shh don't tell Enjolras).
> 
> Five hour drive ahead of me - woo! /sarcasm
> 
> Anyway, this was supposed to be Courf/Jehan and it is but it's mostly Jehan & Grantaire friendship (with a tiny hint of E/R if you tilt your head and squint).

Grantaire pulled irritably at his bowtie, which seemed determined to choke off any reliable source of oxygen, and stubbed his cigarette out. His phone rang, and he answered, “Hello?”

“Grantaire, it’s En—no, fuck you, Courf, I am not saying that. You are a _child_  and I am not calling myself—” Sounds of scuffling could be heard over the phone, and Grantaire waited patiently for it to end, already knowing the outcome. A thoroughly sulky Enjolras came back on the line, saying stiffly, “Rubber Duck, this is Phoenix Rising. We’ve had a report from Striker Force Alpha Team Assemble – are you  _fucking serious_ , Courf?! – of a code 2126.”

Hastily stifling a laugh, Grantaire said obediently, “Roger that, Phoenix Rising. Rubber Duck on it.”

It had been Courfeyrac’s idea to give them all code names for reasons that no one, not even Jehan, could quite comprehend. He had said something about it being easier to deal with problems as they arose that way, but remembering what their stupid codenames were – let alone what the codes themselves meant – only seemed to be making things worse.

Of course, code 2126 was easy for Grantaire to remember, because it was the code that he as best man specifically was meant to deal with – Jehan was freaking out.

So Grantaire ducked back inside, mentally preparing himself for whatever could possibly have gone wrong this time. It wasn’t that Jehan normally freaked out about things – in fact, in many ways, Jehan was one of the most laid back of their friends, willing to take what life threw at him – but in the weeks leading up to the wedding, he had become more and more high strung, freaking out over the smallest of things. So this could easily be a disaster of miniscule proportions but with dramatic consequences.

Either way, it was his duty to face it, and so he did, heading straight to Jehan’s dressing room, not surprised to find Bahorel waiting outside. What did surprise him was how harried Bahorel looked, and also that his hair was wet. “Rubber duck reporting for duty,” said Grantaire cheerfully. “Dare I ask what’s with the hair?”

“He threw a vase at me,” Bahorel growled through gritted teeth. “You better take care of this Taire, because—” He broke off, breathing deeply through his nose, and Grantaire winced.

Clapping him on the shoulder, Grantaire told Bahorel, “I’ll do what I can. And let’s just hope it’s enough.” As Bahorel turned to leave, Grantaire asked, “Oh, the fuck is with your code name, Striker Alpha shit-ass whatever?”

Bahorel grinned. “I wanted the most ridiculous name of all time, since Courf shot down my suggestion to use Mario Kart names.”

“You just wanted an excuse to call Jehan ‘Princess Peach’ when he’s being temperamental; I would’ve shot you down, too.”

Bahorel stuck his tongue out at Grantaire. “Fuck you very much,  _Toad_.”

Grantaire gave him the finger as he pushed the door to Jehan’s dressing room open. He looked Jehan up and down and sighed. “You look like shit, Prouvaire.”

Jehan, who was huddled in the overstuffed armchair, knees drawn up to his chest, didn’t even muster the energy to give him the finger, instead just muttering, “Sorry I’m not prancing around cheerfully. Asshole.”

Grantaire sat down next to him. “C’mon, Jehan, what’s going on? This is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.”

To Grantaire’s surprise, Jehan burst into tears, burying his face in his hands. “I know it’s supposed to be the happiest day, but…but…the flowers!” Jehan wailed. “They’re  _wrong_ , all  _wrong_.”

“The flowers?” Grantaire repeated blankly, looking over at where Jehan’s bouquet was sitting. “What’s wrong with them?”

Jehan hiccupped. “The flower shop messed up. They put harebells in there instead of forget-me-nots.” When Grantaire still looked confused, he repeated, “Harebells, Taire.  _Harebells_.”

Frowning, Grantaire said, “You can keep yelling the word harebells at me all goddamn day, I’m not going to magically know why that’s a problem.”

“Harebells symbolize grief, that’s why it’s a problem!” Jehan practically shouted. “Grief! Mourning! Exactly what every groom wants in his bouquet on his wedding day.”

Though Grantaire wanted to point out that most grooms didn’t typically have bouquets on their wedding days, he managed to restrain himself, looking at the bouquet again. The harebells – he assumed they were the little blue flowers, though hell if he knew – actually looked nice with the red roses, yellow tulips and the small white flowers that Grantaire thought might be angelica – a sure sign he had been spending too much time with Jehan.

Grantaire turned back to Jehan. “Yes, I can see why that would be a little problematic, but the only person who knows what that flower means.” He patted Jehan’s knee gently. “Courfeyrac doesn’t know an azalea from a hydrangea,” he said patiently, “as you well know.” He looked closer at Jehan, who was still sniffling. “Which tells me this is about more than flower arrangements. What’s going on, Jehan?  _Really_  going on? What are you really concerned about?"

Jehan shrugged, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I just…what if this is a mistake? What if…if Courf and I aren’t really meant to be?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Grantaire gently. “Jehan, that’s crazy. You and Courfeyrac are incredible together. Everything about you both just…fits. And you love him like crazy."

"But what if that’s not enough?" whispered Jehan. “What if we lose the passion, or Courfeyrac gets tired of putting up with me? I’m not the easiest person to live with, you know."

Jehan looked perilously close to crying again, and Grantaire reached out to grab his hand, squeezing it gently. “You think Courf doesn’t already know that? He knows you better than even I do, Jehan, and he wants to marry you anyway. And you know why?" Jehan shook his head wordlessly. “Because he loves you. Because he thinks the world of you. Because you make him laugh, and you make him happy, and you challenge him and make him think about things. Because the first person he thinks about in the morning and the last person he thinks about before he goes to bed is you. Because he wants to spend the rest of his life getting to know all the aspects of you that he doesn’t already know." Grantaire paused, then added in a softer tone, “And I think you feel the same about him."

"Do I?" asked Jehan softly, pulling his hand away from Grantaire’s.

Grantaire made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “If you don’t, now is really the time to say so. Actually, the time to say so would have been a year ago when Courfeyrac proposed to you—"

Jehan frowned. “It’s…it’s not that I  _don’t_ feel that way, it’s…How do I know if I’ll always feel that way? How do I know that this is real? I mean, is there even such a thing as true love?"

The look on Grantaire’s face was oddly closed off, and when he spoke, his voice was low. “I have to believe that such a thing does exist, Jehan, and if ever it did, it would be for you and Courf. Never have I seen two people who are as in love as you, you…” He broke off, some unspoken emotion flitting across his face, and when he spoke again, there was almost a longing in his voice. “You and Courf, seeing you together, seeing you happy, it…it gives me hope.”

“Well this is a turning of the tables,” said Jehan wryly. “The cynic, reassuring the dreamer that true love exists?”

Grantaire met his gaze squarely. “Which tells you all the more that you should believe me.” Jehan smiled slightly, but still looked unconvinced, and Grantaire sighed. “Look, let me ask you this – do you think you’ll love Courf tomorrow?”

Jehan looked affronted. “Of course I will.”

“Will you love him next week?” Jehan nodded, still looking insulted. “Will you love him next month? Next year? Two years from now? Five years from now?” The concerned look in Jehan’s eyes had changed into something more contemplative, and Grantaire swallowed a smile. “Is there any point in the future that you can’t see yourself being as in love with him as you are today?”

“No, but…” Jehan trailed off and Grantaire waited patiently, watching the emotions flash across Jehan’s face, watching as his face split into a wide grin. “I really do love him, don’t I?”

Grantaire patted Jehan’s knee. “You really, really do. Now, let’s get you married, huh?”

Jehan smiled even wider. “You’re the best, did you know that?”

Blushing slightly, Grantaire snorted derisively. “Yeah, yeah.”

Jehan caught his arm as he turned away. “I’m serious, Taire. And you…you’ll find someone who you love just as much as I love Courfeyrac.” Grantaire snorted again, and Jehan’s gaze softened. “Or, if you already have, he’ll love you just as much as you love him. And don’t you dare say ‘true love is for sissies’ or any of that bullshit you normally give me, because now I know better.”

Grantaire looked torn between laughing or crying, and settled for shaking his head sadly and poking Jehan in the chest. “This is your day, not mine. My problems will wait. For right now, we need to get you down that aisle and hitched.”

“Fine,” said Jehan, but his tone was sing-song as he added, “I just think it would be cute if my best man ended up with Courf’s best man…”

Grantaire looked contemplative. “You know, I never thought about myself with Combeferre, but he and I could be good together…”

Jehan smacked his arm. “You know who I mean.”

Shrugging, Grantaire straightened Jehan’s bowtie for him. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Either way, it’s time to take a walk, Prouvaire.”

Jehan put his arm through Grantaire’s, grabbing his bouquet. “You know, you won’t be able to call me that after today.”

Grantaire gave him a sideways glance. “Why? Are you taking Courf’s name?”

“Of course not,” Jehan snorted. “Like I would become Monsieur de Courfeyrac? Hell no. He’s taking mine.”

Laughing, Grantaire mused, “It would be a little confusing to call ‘Prouvaire’ and have both of you turn around. I’ll have to work on a new name to call you.”

“What’s wrong with ‘Jehan’?” asked Jehan, raising an eyebrow at him.

Grantaire waved his free hand dismissively. “It’s too pedestrian. Everyone calls you that. I could call you after a Greek god, I suppose…who was the Greek god of poetry?”

Jehan cleared his throat, nodding down the aisle as they lined up, towards Courfeyrac, who stood flanked by his two best men, Enjolras and Combeferre. “Apollo. And I think that nickname’s already taken.”

Grantaire sighed moodily. “Of course. That would be the case. Well, no matter. We’ll figure something out.” He squeezed Jehan’s arm. “You ready for this?”

The music swelled, and Jehan beamed at him. “As ready as I can be.”

Together, they walked down the aisle, Jehan’s eyes not leaving Courfeyrac’s until they got to the end of the aisle and he turned to hand his bouquet to Grantaire to hold. “Bridezilla,” whispered Grantaire in Jehan’s ear as he took the bouquet.

Jehan smiled sweetly at him. “I will fuck you up,” he whispered with a wink.

A grin broke out across Grantaire’s face. “Go get ‘im, tiger.”

The officiant smiled at all of them, and started, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” while Enjolras smiled at Grantaire and mouthed ‘You look nice.’

‘Pay attention, you slacker,’ Grantaire mouthed back, grinning when Enjolras blushed.

In between them, Courfeyrac had taken Jehan’s hand and squeezed it gently. “I love you,” he whispered.

Jehan smiled back at him, a relaxed, genuine smile. “And I love you. Now and for eternity.”


	50. Prompt 48 - Joly/Combeferre First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, you can find prompt 47 [here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/906586)
> 
> High school AU.

"It’s unsanitary," Joly spluttered, his cheeks tinged pink. “I mean, the amount of germs exchanged? Not to mention if there are any open sores on either party…"

"You only say that because you haven’t done it," laughed Courfeyrac gleefully.

Combeferre set his tray down next to Joly at their usual table in the cafeteria. “What has Joly never done?" he asked mildly.

Joly blushed furiously as Courfeyrac said with an evil grin, “Our beloved Jolllly has never been kissed."

"Never been kissed?" laughed Bahorel from Joly’s other side, nudging him in the ribs. “Even Enjolras has been kissed!"

Even with his face hidden by his AP US History textbook, everyone could see Enjolras’s ears go red. “It was spin-the-bottle, it was Grantaire, it  _doesn’t count_ ," Enjolras said through gritted teeth.

On the other side of Courfeyrac, Grantaire gave a low chuckle. “Keep telling yourself that."

"Bahorel’s got a point," Jehan piped up from the end of the table. “I mean, everyone here, more or less, has been kissed, right? And I’m hardly one to enforce societal norms, but Joly, do you really want to graduate high school without ever having kissed anyone?"

Joly just shrugged and looked down at his hands, and Combeferre cleared his throat. “Fascinating though this conversation is, we have a debate to prep for, do we not?"

Grumbling, everyone shuffled in their seats, turning their attention to the upcoming debate. Joly shot a glance at Combeferre and mouthed ‘Thank you.’

Combeferre shrugged and half-smiled, mouthing back, ‘What are friends for?’

* * *

 

Win or lose, Les Amis de l’ABC, as their debate team was named, would always end a debate meet at Courfeyrac’s house. Luckily, that particular Saturday, Les Amis had won, so the mood was particularly celebratory. Even Combeferre and Enjolras had a beer in solidarity with their more boisterous teammates.

About an hour into the party, Combeferre realized he hadn’t seen Joly in awhile. “Have you seen Joly?" he asked Jehan over the music.

Jehan shrugged, busy texting someone on his cell phone. “Last I saw he was talking to Courfeyrac."

Combeferre went to ask Courfeyrac, who was busy taking pictures with his cell phone of Enjolras and Grantaire making out, muttering, “Spin-the-bottle may not count but this sure as hell does," to himself. Bossuet, however, told Combeferre, “I think I saw him go out to the porch", so Combeferre slipped by him and went outside to the porch.

He found Joly out there, leaning on the porch rail, and went to stand next to him, nudging him with his shoulder. “Hey."

"Hey," said Joly, turning to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be inside celebrating with everyone else?"

Combeferre gave him a look. “I could ask the same thing of you," he pointed out.

Joly shrugged. “I didn’t feel much like celebrating."

Combeferre nodded understandingly. “Yeah, I get that. Anything in particular on your mind?"

Blushing, Joly sighed and said, “It’s the stupid kissing thing. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. I just…I mean…am I really missing out on that much?"

Combeferre half-smiled and shrugged. “I wouldn’t know."

Frowning, Joly asked, “What do you mean, you wouldn’t know?" Then his eyes widened. “You mean, you…you haven’t…?"

"Nope," said Combeferre, and his smile looked more like a grimace. “When you’re best friends with Enjolras and Courfeyrac, it can be a little hard to get noticed. Not that I’m complaining," he added hastily. “It’s not like there’s a lot of people I wanted to kiss."

Joly looked sideways at him, biting his lip. “I just can’t believe that you…you of all people…"

He trailed off, and Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Me of all people…what?"

Blushing slightly, Joly said, “I mean, I can understand why no one wants to kiss me. I’m the sort of goofy, nerdy one, you know? But you - you’re tall and handsome and thoughtful and…well, kind of perfect."

"And you’re Jolllly, who could fly away on the 4 L’s, the one who’s always the most cheerful, the one who looks after us all," Combeferre pointed out calmly. “Whereas I am too serious, too quiet, too focused…" He trailed off, and then laughed softly. “What a pair we make, huh?"

Joly sighed and leaned back down against the porch rail. “Yep. You and me, the odd guys out."

Combeferre froze for a moment, a curious expression crossing his face. “Well, you know what they say," he said slowly, almost hesitantly, “if you can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em."

"I’m about 98% sure it’s the other way around," laughed Joly, turning to face Combeferre, whose face was suddenly mere inches from his. “Ferre?" he squeaked.

"What if I kissed you?" Combeferre asked, completely serious. “We could be each other’s firsts. None of the awkwardness, and it’d be over with."

Joly stared at him, at the man who was just as, if not more handsome up close, at his eyes which he had never noticed were that particular shade of blue-gray, at the man who Joly had always been close with due to their shared interests and similar natures. And he nodded, just once, and whispered, “Ok."

As far as first kisses went, it was right in the middle between good and bad, between comfortable and awkward. It was mostly just their lips pressed together for a few second, while trying to figure out what to do with their hands, whether to keep their eyes open, and good God, what in the world they were supposed to do about their noses (their noses pretty much just smushed together, but both men thought there had to be a trick to it that they were missing).

They broke apart and just looked at each other, both trying to come up with something to say. Joly offered hesitantly, “Again?"

Something in Combeferre’s face relaxed, and he smiled. “Sure," he agreed, leaning forward. This time, their lips matched a bit better, and they had figured out the nose thing. Joly was still at a loss over what to do with his hands, until Combeferre put his arms around Joly’s waist. Then Joly’s arms automatically seemed to go around Combeferre’s neck.

And then, almost without him meaning to, his mouth opened against Combeferre’s, and the kiss deepened as their tongues hesitantly explored the other’s mouth.

When they broke apart this time, both were panting slightly, and after a moment, in an almost clinical tone, Combeferre noted, “It was better the second time."

Joly nodded emphatically, cheeks pink. “Definitely."

"Which stands to reason," Combeferre continued, the clinical tone in his voice slipping into something deeper, “that it’ll be even better the third time."

Joly’s breath seemed to catch in his throat. “That would make sense, logically."

"Mmm," Combeferre agreed, and then they were kissing again, one of Combeferre’s hands tangling in Joly’s hair.

Joly had just balled his hand in Combeferre’s shirt when the door banged open. Though they sprang apart, it was too late - Courfeyrac had seen them. “Holy shit!" he exclaimed with barely controlled glee. “Everyone, you gotta come see! Joly and Combeferre, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

Combeferre and Joly exchanged glances as the rest of the group came running. Joly surprised Combeferre by reaching down and lacing his fingers firmly with Combeferre’s. “Well, you know what they say, if you can’t beat ‘em…"

"Join ‘em," Combeferre finished, grinning, and they kissed again, ignoring as their friends broke into whoops and catcalls, caught up solely in each other.

Finally they pulled apart - albeit reluctantly - and Courfeyrac said excitedly, “Congrats on losing your kissing virginity, Joly!"

Combeferre rolled his eyes, lacing his fingers with Joly’s again. “Yes, now neither of us are kissing virgins."

Courfeyrac started to talk, then stopped, looking confused. “Wait, Ferre, you mean…you…"

"Enjolras, how do you feel about the idea of ‘virginity’?" asked Joly loudly, winking at Combeferre as Enjolras instantly launched into a rant about misogyny and policing of bodies and sexualities. The rant only stopped when Grantaire rolled his eyes and leaned over and kissed Enjolras, who instantly fell silent.

In the meantime, Joly and Combeferre had slipped away, running hand-in-hand around the house. Then Joly stopped, pressing Combeferre against the side of the house and kissing him almost hungrily. Combeferre kissed him back, and when they broke apart, he rested his forehead against Joly’s. “So," he said, smiling. “This experiment seems to be going well."

"Mmhmm," Joly hummed in agreement. “But our sample size is a little small to be able to draw any conclusions."

Combeferre’s smile widened. “I agree. We’re definitely going to need to carry on our experiment. To continue testing the hypothesis. Provided the second subject in the experiment is amenable, of course."

"Of course," Joly echoed, his smile matching Combeferre’s. “I think the second subject is entirely amenable."

And to prove it, he kissed Combeferre again. Then he asked, “Shall we move this experiment somewhere else?"

Combeferre grabbed his hand. “My parents just happen to be out of town this weekend."

Joly couldn’t help himself, and kissed Combeferre another time. Combeferre laughed against Joly’s insistent lips. “Or we can stay here if you’d rather."

They heard Courfeyrac shout something about finding where Joly and Combeferre had gone and looked instantly at each other. “Nope, your place sounds good," said Joly quickly.

"Agreed," said Combeferre, pulling Joly toward his car. “Besides, we should also try experimenting in the car. Try a variety of environments."

Joly laughed. “But how are you going to control for both the number of times kissing and the different environments?"

Combeferre held the car door open for Joly and leaned in to kiss him. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out."


	51. Prompt 49 - Courf/Jehan Courf has a Chronic Illness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **TW for suicide, character death, and illness**  
>   
> 
> I'm sorry.

Courfeyrac did not take turning 30 well. And by ‘not taking it well’, it meant that he spent the first half of the day curled up in the fetal position in his and Jehan’s bed, refusing to come out, refusing to put real clothes on, at least until Jehan threatened to cancel his birthday party.

“What’s wrong, Courf?” Jehan asked, sitting down next to him on the bed. “Age is just a number. You’re only 30.”

Shrugging, Courferyrac said morosely, “You’re only 28.”

Jehan rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure the whole world will care about the fact that you’re not even two years older than your husband.”

“You don’t understand,” Courfeyrac sighed dramatically, lying back against the bed. “You’re still in your twenties. I’m in my thirties. I’m an old man.”

It took a lot of effort for Jehan not to roll his eyes again. Instead, he kissed the corner of Courfeyrac’s mouth just insistently enough to get Courf to part his lips, and then Jehan licked his way into the rest of Courfeyrac’s mouth, rolling over to straddle him. “If you were an old man,” he told Courf, resting his palms flat against Courferyrac’s chest, “you wouldn’t be able to get it up right now. Care to prove me wrong?”

Jehan rolled his hips against Courfeyrac’s and Courf bit off a swear, flipping Jehan so that he was now on top, his eyes dark. “I will prove you wrong,” he whispered. “And then some.”

An hour later, they lay next to each other, Courfeyrac playing lazily with Jehan’s hair. “See,” whispered Jehan, kissing Courfeyrac again. “Nothing has changed now that you’re 30. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He was wrong.

It was only a few short weeks after his birthday that Courfeyrac began having problems. He became clumsy, for lack of a better term, bumping into things, tripping over things, and even falling over. He laughed most of it off, even chalking it up to his “advanced” age.

But then Joly, when checking Courfeyrac for a concussion after a particularly bad fall, noticed that Courfeyrac’s eye movements seemed jerky. And so he recommended Courfeyrac go see a doctor.

Though Courfeyrac tried to laugh it off again, this time Jehan insisted as well. He had seen some irregularities in Courfeyrac’s movements as well, and was worried. Very worried.

And well he should have been.

After a barrage of tests, Courfeyrac was diagnosed with Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, a form of Parkinson’s.

He was given five to seven years.

Five to seven years.

Five to seven years with the man that he loved, five to seven years to try and accomplish all that he wanted to, but even fewer than that, as he would probably be wheelchair bound in only three years, with progressive loss of motor and cognitive function after that, including probably dementia, eventually forgetting who he was, and worse, forgetting Jehan. Courfeyrac’s joke of being an old man on his birthday was particularly hollow now – he would not live to be an old man, would die a wasted shell in the prime of his life.

It was the worst possible way for someone such as Courfeyrac – someone so full of life and light and energy – to go. He would lose everything that made him who he was in such a short amount of time.

It was impossible to process.

So much so that Courfeyrac’s initial reaction was to turn to Jehan, an odd expression on his face, and say, “I could die before I’m eligible to run for President of the United States.”

Jehan was taken aback by this, lost in his own thoughts and trying to process the news that his husband was dying, and said in a hoarse voice, “I didn’t know you had any plans to run for president.”

“I don’t,” Courfeyrac shrugged, a jerky movement that was unlike him. “I just really liked the idea of you singing ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President’, Marilyn Monroe style, you know?”

“Courf—” Jehan started weakly, breaking off when Courfeyrac broke into a mixture of hysterical sobbing and crying. With the doctor’s permission, Jehan took Courfeyrac home, taking him up to their bedroom, putting his arms around him and letting him cry. “Shhh,” he whispered, as soothingly as he could. “We’ll get through this together. I promise.”

Courfeyrac pulled away suddenly, eyes hard. “This isn’t like  _The Notebook_ , Jehan," he said harshly, purposefully drawing on one of Jehan’s favorite movies. “We’re not going to die together at an old age, holding hands after I remember you for the last time. I will die decades before you, and probably forget who you are even before that. You deserve someone who will remember you forever, someone who will be there for you for the rest of your life, someone to hold your hand when you die and kiss you one last time…"

He was crying by this point, tears streaming down his face and choking his voice until he could no longer speak. Jehan held his hand tightly, gripping it in both his own. “When I said ‘in sickness and in health’, I meant it, Courf," said Jehan in a low voice. “I’m not leaving you, not now, not ever, and definitely not because of this."

Courfeyrac just wordlessly shook his head, the tears falling even harder. “No,” he managed finally, in a voice that was hoarse from crying. “No. You may be strong enough for that – Christ, Jehan, if anyone’s strong enough for that it’d be you, but I’m not. I can’t. I can’t watch you go through that, watch you have to take care of me, watch you watch me die. I can’t. I can’t.”

By this time he was sobbing again, and Jehan pulled him close to him, letting Courfeyrac cry brokenly into his shirt. “But I can,” whispered Jehan, running his fingers through Courfeyrac’s curls. “I can and I will be strong enough for both of us, I promise. I love you, and I will not stop loving you because of this.”

“But you should,” whispered Courfeyrac. “You really should.”

Jehan hugged him even tighter. “Never,” he whispered fiercely.

It was the end of the discussion for then, as more important matters arose – telling their friends and families, starting to make necessary prepartions. Courfeyrac seemed to withdraw more and more into himself as the next few weeks wore on. Jehan was there for him as much as possible, even though Courfeyrac seemed to almost flinch from his touch.

Until one night, when Courfeyrac practically dragged Jehan home after a Les Amis meeting, barely letting Jehan say goodbye to everyone, making out with him on their front stoop as if they were horny teenagers again, and then taking him inside, laying him down on the bed, and making love to him, something almost bittersweet in their coupling.

When they lay next to each other after that, both of their chests heaving, Courfeyrac put an arm around Jehan and drew him close. “I love you,” he said, simply and plainly. “I may never get the chance to say it enough times, so don’t forget it, alright? I love you.”

Jehan kissed the palm of Courfeyrac’s hand, leaned up and kissed Courfeyrac’s forehead, and dropped a gentle kiss to Courfeyrac’s lips. “And I love you.”

“I know,” said Courfeyrac, smiling, just a little sadly. “And I won’t forget it.”

The next morning, when Jehan woke up, Courfeyrac’s side of the bed was empty, which was unusual, since even now Courfeyrac was finding it difficult to get out of bed in the mornings. Instead, where Courfeyrac should be lying, there was an envelope, with ‘Jehan’ written on it in Courfeyrac’s shaky handwriting.

Frowning, Jehan opened it and pulled a piece of paper out, reading the words Courfeyrac had written within:

“ _Dearest Jehan, love and light of my life,_

_You know that I love you more than I could ever put into words, let alone here of all places. You were always the poet; I was just the fool in love._

_I have treasured every single moment that I have spent with you, treasured every memory you and I have made together, every single touch you and I have shared, every kiss, every glance._

_I don’t want to lose that._

_I don’t want to forget our first date, how nervous I was, how nice you smelled, how I spilled and entire pitcher of water all over you and then tried to give you my shirt but I was only wearing a t-shirt so we got kicked out of the restaurant. I don’t want to forget that you kissed me that night, in front of your apartment, just one kiss that changed my life forever._

_I don’t want to forget the first time we made love, the first time I told you I loved you, the first time you said it back. I don’t want to forget our wedding, our honeymoon._

_I don’t want to forget our life together._

_And most of all, I don’t want to tarnish those memories, replace them with memories of you crying, of you giving your life to take care of me, of you trying your hardest and me being unable to help in any capacity. I don’t want to trade us lying in bed together for me lying in bed being unable to get up. I don’t want to trade you feeding me chocolate covered strawberries after sex to you feeding me because I can’t feed myself._

_I don’t want to trade a decade of wonderful memories, of a wonderful life together, for five to seven years of hell._

_I won’t do that to you._

_And so I’m not._

_Please, PLEASE, **PLEASE**  do not blame yourself. You could not have stopped me. I was dying anyway, and this way, you do not have to watch me. You are strong and you are brave, and you will get through this, my darling. I know you will._

_Our last memories should be what we shared last night. That was what made us us, Jehan. Never forget that._

_I love you now. I love you forever._

_Courfeyrac_ ”

Jehan knew, knew what had happened, knew what Courfeyrac had done even before the panicked call from Combeferre, even before the policeman knocked on his door to deliver the somber news. He knew that the light in his world had left, as suddenly as a candle being snuffed out.

He didn’t know if it was better this way, better than watching the candle burn out before its time.

God, what an imperfect metaphor.

And then Jehan sat on the edge on his bed, clutching the letter, almost laughing at himself because his husband had just committed suicide, and here he was thinking that the metaphor he had come up with for it was imperfect.

It was what Courfeyrac had wanted, going out as he had lived, leaving none of the pain that accompanied a long, crippling illness.

No, just the pain of seeing his sheet-covered corpse on the ten o’clock news. Just the pain of having to call all of their friends and deliver the news. Just the pain of planning a funeral for the love of his life.

Just the pain of having the only explanation being written on a single sheaf of paper, of having questions that would never be answered, of having a hole in his life that gaped and pulled and expanded.

Just the pain of having no fucking clue what he was supposed to do with the rest of his life.

Courfeyrac had told him that he deserved someone whole and happy, someone to hold his hand as he died. But so had Courfeyrac, and instead, Courf had chosen to steal Jehan’s chance to hold Courfeyrac’s hand as he died, to comfort him in those final moments.

And he hated Courfeyrac. And he hated himself for hating Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac hadn’t wanted his life to stall. After three days of being completely unable to get out of bed, what would he have called this, if not a stalled life?

There were no easy answers. Courfeyrac had made his decision. Jehan had to live with the consequences.

Even if those consequences mostly included wishing he could follow Courfeyrac.

He told him so, on one of the many days that he visited Courfeyrac’s headstone in the cemetery. “You told me that I’m strong, that I’ll get through this,” he said in a cracked voice that was rough from disuse. “You’re wrong. I can’t get through this. I can’t do this without you, Courfeyrac. You thought I could but you thought wrong.”

He touched a trembling hand to the cold stone, tracing the letters engraved there. His hand was too pale and far too thin, matching the gray pallor and deep circles under his eyes. “You stole the five years we should have had, and I don’t think you understand what I’d do to get them back. Even if you weren't whole and were broken, we would always be whole together. Now you’re gone and I’m the one left broken, and without you here to pick up the pieces…”

Trailing off, he hastily wiped the tears from his cheeks. “You’re a selfish bastard,” he told the headstone after a long moment. “A miserable, selfish asshole. And goddamnit I love you despite that. I love you just as much now as I ever did.”

He stopped again, and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Maybe I’ll see you soon. Maybe I won’t. But damn it all, I’ll love you just the same. Even though I hate you.”

And he walked away without looking back.


	52. Prompt 50 - E/R Coffee shop AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, the final prompt (at least for this set of prompts). Huge thanks to everyone who sent prompts in, to everyone who read these drabbles, and especially everyone who's commented, kudos'd, etc.

Grantaire yawned so loudly that his jaw creaked, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. He was rarely up this early, and for good reason – he was hardly a morning person, and thus needed an obscene amount of caffeine to keep him going. Which is how he found himself at the small coffee shop on his way to campus at the unholy hour of eight in the morning, ordering the largest size coffee they had (with a few shots of espresso thrown in for good measure).

The only reason he was up this early was because he had a meeting with his academic advisor, which his roommate Jehan had told him rather bossily that he couldn’t afford to miss, even if it was scheduled for the awfully inconvenient time of 8:45am. Which was a bizarre time to start anything, he had complained the previous night.

Jehan had just raised an eyebrow without looking up from the spiral notebook he was scribbling in. “Probably fitting you in between other appointments,” he suggested.

Well,  _that_  was reassuring.

Anyway, due mostly to completely misreading the time on his alarm clock, he was here even earlier than intended, and he scowled at the cup of coffee as he tried to pull the lid off to add some cream. Of course, because it was him, because it was his life, he managed to get the lid off just when he wasn’t expecting it, sending the cup skittering across the counter and spilling everywhere.

"Fuck," swore Grantaire under his breath, quickly grabbing a wad of napkins in an attempt to wipe it up, and only succeeding in creating a soggy mess.

He looked around furtively for the barista, who appeared to have disappeared into the back, and sighing deeply, Grantaire ducked behind the counter to grab a rag and try and clean up more.

So absorbed was he in what he was doing that he didn’t notice someone else had come in the coffee shop until he heard that someone clear his throat. Grantaire glanced up and instantly dropped the rag he was holding, mouth going dry. He was looking at what he could only describe as Apollo-incarnate. His fingers instantly itched for a pencil and sketchpad to capture the likeness, all the way down to the haughty frown he wore.

Though Grantaire wished fervently that he had come up with something suave to say, he mostly made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. The Apollo arched a perfect blond eyebrow and Grantaire forgot how to breathe. “Are you ready to take my order?" the blond godling asked.

Grantaire gaped at him. “Your…what?"

"My order," Apollo snapped.

Looking down at the rag in front of him, realizing for the first time his position behind the counter, Grantaire stammered “Um, I’m uh, um, I’m not…"

Whatever he had been trying to say died on his tongue when the blond gave an imperious shake of his magnificent mane of blond curls. “I want a quadruple-espresso organic soy latte," he said, voice sour. “Extra hot, extra foam."

There was a part of Grantaire that wanted to snap right back at him, to ask him how dare he assume that Grantaire was a worker and order him around – especially if this was how he normally spoke to service personnel – but another, larger part of himself wanted to do anything in his power to ease that scowl from the angelic face.

So being Grantaire, he leaned across the counter and put on his most charming smile. “I can do that for you – maybe. In exchange for something."

"In exchange for something?" the other man repeated, his frown deepening. “In exchange for  _what_? This isn’t a barter system."

Grantaire’s grin widened. “Maybe not," he agreed amenably, “but if you want a coffee from me, you play by my rules."

Frowning so deeply that Grantaire wanted nothing more than to kiss the corners of his mouth in hopes they would lift in a smile, the man said stiffly, “You must be new here."

"That’s one way to put it," Grantaire muttered, mostly under his breath, the smile not faltering on his face. “But seriously, if you want your coffee, I want your name.”

The man looked taken aback for a second. “My name?” he echoed blankly. There was a brief pause as his forehead wrinkled, as if he was trying to process it, then he said in an odd voice, “My name is Enjolras.”

Grantaire grinned. “Enjolras,” he repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue, savoring the taste of it in his mouth. “My name is Grantaire.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said obediently, quirking one eyebrow again. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you wanted my name?”

Chuckling lightly, Grantaire turned to examine the espresso machine. “No, I don’t suppose I am. Enjolras.”

Enjolras leaned against the counter, his expression turning surly again as he watched Grantaire fiddle experimentally with the knobs on the machine. “You  _have_  done this before, right?” he asked, with just a hint of a sigh.

“Of course I have,” said Grantaire, mock-offended. Of course he hadn’t. But it couldn’t be too hard in theory, right? Maybe?

Huffing another sigh, Enjolras rolled his eyes, but thankfully didn’t question Grantaire again. Grantaire was mostly able to assemble what he thought was the correct amount of ground espresso beans, and even – eventually – clicked the right button to get the shots of espresso poured. He located the soymilk, poured it into the appropriate receptacle, and even managed to sort of heat it. Ish. If you didn’t pay attention to relative temperature, anyway.

Then it was just a matter of assembling it, which Grantaire did carefully, having absolutely no idea what exactly made a latte a latte. Then he grabbed a Sharpie, scribbled a name on it, and smiled at Enjolras. “If you want your coffee, you’re going to have to give me something else.”

“What more could you possible want from me?” Enjolras snapped.

Grantaire just grinned. “Your number.” Enjolras’s expression turned dubious, and Grantaire quickly and smoothly lied, “It’s for our rewards program. For, you know, repeat customers.”

Enjolras muttered something that sounded like, “You’ll be lucky if I’m a repeat customer after this,” but rattled off the ten digits just the same, Grantaire obediently writing them on a scrap of paper.

Then Enjolras pulled out his wallet, but Grantaire quickly stopped him. “On the house,” he said, smiling sweetly. “For being oh so patient with me.”

A curious expression crossed Enjolras’s face, but he quickly turned it into his usual surly look, and he gave Grantaire a half-nod of grudging appreciation before grabbing his coffee and leaving.

Grantaire stared after him for a moment, then looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. Totally worth it. He still had time to kill before his meeting, so he sat at one of the tables in the café, entering Enjolras’s number into his phone under the entry, “Apollo.”

He was nothing if not consistent.

Suddenly, a voice broke through his reverie, thundering, “You wrote ‘Apollo’ on my cup,” and Grantaire looked up, surprised to see Enjolras towering above him, eyebrows drawn tightly together, the cup in question thrust towards him. “All that to get my name, and you write ‘Apollo’ on my cup?” Grantaire just looked at him, mouth hanging open in what he wryly imagined must look a bit funny to a casual observer, but really it was because he had seemed to have forgotten how to make his jaw work. “Plus, this tastes like  _shit_.”

With that, Enjolras all but slammed the cup down in front of Grantaire, crossing his arms in front of his chest, seething. “Besides which, I come back in here and find you sitting here, what, taking a break? A little early in the day for that, isn’t it? Do you really think you deserve a break after the mess you’ve made? Where is your manager? I think I’d like to talk to him or her about your behavior.”

Grantaire couldn’t help it. He wanted to explain himself, to come up with some excuse, anything, but instead he dissolved into laughter, practically burying his face in his arms, shoulders shaking as he cracked up.

“Grantaire?” asked Enjolras, almost tentatively, though mostly he sounded put out that he had no clue what was happening.

It took several moments for Grantaire to get it under control, and then he sat up, wiping actual tears from his eyes. “I’m…I’m sorry,” he gasped, hiccupping slightly. “I just…I don’t even work here.”

It was Enjolras’s turn to stare at him, mouth gaping, confusion in the furrows of his brow, comprehension dawning in his eyes. “You…you don’t actually work here?”

Grantaire shook his head, eyes shining with mirth. “Nope.”

“But then…why…?”

Enjolras trailed off and Grantaire grinned widely, something a little feral in his grin. “You’re hot. And demanding. Which is also hot, by the way. I saw an opportunity, so I took it.”

Closing his eyes briefly, Enjolras nodded slowly. “Of course. The name, and my number…You didn’t actually want to sign me up for a rewards program.”

“Of course not,” Grantaire chortled. “Honestly, I’m as surprised as you that you fell for it so completely. I figured you would turn around and walk out when I asked for your name, let alone your number, but I guess I underestimated your need for coffee.”

Enjolras opened his mouth as if to say something, seemed to catch himself, half-frowned, and sank into the chair opposite Grantaire. “So you did all this because you thought I was attractive,” he said, finally, as if confirming it for himself. “And you just happened to be here this morning?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Well I’m sure as hell not stalking you or something if that’s what you mean. I’ve literally never been in here before today. And the only reason I was dicking around behind the counter is because I pulled a Lesgle and spilled my coffee fucking everywhere right before you came in.”

“Pulled a  _what_?” asked Enjolras, curious expression on his face.

“Oh, uh, I have a friend, named Lesgle, and he has terrible luck that sometimes results in him causing grievous bodily harm to himself, and other times just causes him to break everything he touches.”

Enjolras raised both eyebrows, looking surprised. “You know Bossuet?”

Grantaire stared at him, then started laughing again. “Oh my  _god_ , you’re that student revolutionary, aren’t you? Prouvaire was telling me about you, but I didn’t realize it was, you know,  _you_.”

“You know Jehan, too?” asked Enjolras, incredulous. “Why haven’t we met before?”

Waving a dismissive hand, Grantaire sat back in his seat, half-smiling. “We wouldn’t exactly run in the same circles. You’re far more likely to find a copy of Kierkegaard or Nietzsche in my apartment than, say, the Social Contract.”

Enjolras closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Of course,” he huffed, “a nihilist. Why am I not surprised?”

Grantaire laughed again, a slightly smug laugh. “Not a nihilist, a realist.” He caught sight of the time, and sighed. “As much as I would love to debate the difference with you – I’m sure you have  _plenty_  to say on the subject, Enjolras, leader of Les Amis de l’ABC – I have a meeting with my academic advisor that I have to get to.”

Enjolras watched him as he stood, and Grantaire thought he might have seen something like disappointment shadow the man’s face, but then just as quickly it was gone. “Well, it was… _interesting_  meeting you,” said Enjolras slowly.

“That it was,” said Grantaire lightly. He bit his lip, torn between wanting to stay, to spend every moment possible with Enjolras, and also knowing that he had to get to his meeting. Shifting his weight, he asked awkwardly, “Walk with me?”

Blinking, Enjolras asked, “Sorry?”

“Walk me to my meeting?” Grantaire repeated before he could lose the nerve. “We could, ah, talk more along the way? If – if you wanted.”

Enjolras stared at him for a brief moment, then blushed just slightly, enough to make Grantaire’s heart melt completely. “Um, sure.” He stood, then frowned. “One condition, though.”

“Anything,” answered Grantaire in a heartbeat.

“Buy me another cup of coffee, because I was not joking. That shit you made for me was vile.”

Grantaire laughed again, an easy, open laugh. “Deal. 100% deal.”

He bought Enjolras coffee. They walked to Grantaire’s meeting and argued the entire way. When Grantaire came out of his meeting, Enjolras was waiting. To argue some more, he said. Halfway to the library (where Enjolras was supposed to have met someone an hour earlier), Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’s hand to prove a point. Five minutes later, they realized they were still holding hands.

Grantaire smiled, a little shyly, and squeezed Enjolras’s hand. Enjolras smiled slightly back, then launched into a long list of reasons why Nietzsche can’t be taken seriously in certain contexts. Grantaire, who had long stopped listening to Enjolras’s actual words, focused far more on the lines of Enjolras’s neck and jaw as he talked, at the way his face animated so beautifully, at the light that flared within his eyes as he argued, couldn’t help but be very, very grateful that his advisor had scheduled an 8:45am meeting.

Especially when he kissed Enjolras mid-rant, just to get him to shut up for twenty seconds.

Especially when Enjolras kissed him back.

Especially when Enjolras finally stopped kissing him and whispered hoarsely, “I really have to go.”

Especially since they made plans to see each other that night.

It was, Grantaire thought contemplatively as he watched Enjolras disappear into the library, almost enough to make a man as cynical as Grantaire into a believer. Almost. And in the meantime, he’d gladly give Enjolras every opportunity to try and convert him.


End file.
